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THE  WHITE  HEART 
OF  MOJAVE 

An  Adventure  with  the  Outdoors 
OF  the  Desert 


EDNA  BRUSH  PERKINS 


BONI     AND     LIVERIGHT 

Publishers  New  York 


Copyright,  i<)Z2,  by 

BONI  AND  LlVERICHT,    InC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE   UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 


To 
my  friend 

CHARLOTTE  HANNAHS  JORDAN 

who  shared  this  adventure 

in  the  wind  and  sun 

of  big  spaces 


1283301 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

Page 

I. 

The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors  . 

9 

11. 

How  We  Found  Mojave     . 

20 

III. 

The  White  Heart    .     .     . 

51 

IV. 

The  Outfit 

71 

V. 

Entering  Death  Valley     . 

87 

VI. 

The  Strangest  Farm   in  the 

, 

World 

112 

VII. 

The  Burning  Sands  .     .     . 

128 

VIII. 

The  Dry  Camp     .... 

141 

IX. 

The  Mountain  Spring    .     . 

155 

X. 

The  High  White  Peaks     . 

180 

XI. 

Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 

195 

XII. 

The  End  of  the  Adventure 

219 

Appendix 

225 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Desert  Road Frontispiece 

Facing  Pace 

Some  Half-wild  Burrows  Around  Silver  Lake  54 

Beatty,  at  the  Base  of  a  Big  Red  Mountain  .  80 

The  Outfit 90 

The  Camp  Behind  the  Barn 102 

The  Alkali  Bottom  of  Death  Valley     .      .      .  130 

The  Desert 150 

A  Pack-Train  Crossing  a  Dry  Lake    .      .      .  166 


The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors 

BEYOND  the  walls  and  solid  roofs  of 
houses  is  the  outdoors.  It  is  always  on 
the  doorstep.  The  sky,  serene,  or  piled 
with  white,  slow-moving  clouds,  or  full  of  wind 
and  purple  storm,  is  always  overhead.  But 
walls  have  an  engrossing  quality.  If  there  are 
many  of  them  they  assert  themselves  and  domi- 
neer. They  insist  on  the  unique  importance  of 
the  contents  of  walls  and  would  have  you  be- 
lieve that  the  spaces  above  them,  the  slow  pro- 
cession of  the  seasons  and  the  alternations  of 
sunshine  and  rain,  are  accessories,  pleasant  or 
unpleasant,  of  walls, — indeed  that  they  were 
made,  and  a  bungling  job,  too,  and  to  be  disre- 
garded as  a  bungling  job  should  be,  solely  that 
walls  might  exist. 

Perhaps  your  lawyer  or  your  dentist  has  his 

[9] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


office  on  the  nineteenth  floor  of  a  modern  sky- 
scraper. While  you  wait  for  his  ministrations 
you  look  out  of  his  big  window.  Below  you  the 
roofs  of  the  city  spread  for  miles  to  blue  hills  or 
the  bright  sea.  The  smoke  of  tall  chimneys 
rolls  into  the  sky  that  fills  all  the  space  between 
you  and  the  horizon  and  the  sun;  the  smoke  of 
hustling  prosperity  fans  out,  and  floats,  and 
mixes  with  the  clouds,  and  becomes  at  last  part 
of  a  majestic  movement  of  something  other  thai; 
either  smoke  or  clouds.  Suddenly  the  roofs  that 
covered  only  tables  and  chairs  and  power  ma- 
chines cover  romance,  a  million  romances  rise 
and  mingle  like  the  smoke  of  the  tall  chimneys. 
They  mix  with  the  romance  of  the  clouds  and 
the  hills.  You  are  happy.  Nothing  is  changed 
around  you,  but  you  are  happy.  You  only  know 
that  the  sun  did  it,  and  those  far-off  hills.  When 
the  man  you  are  waiting  for  comes  in  you  con- 
gratulate him  on  his  fine  view.  Then  the  jealous 
walls  assert  themselves  again ;  they  want  you  to 
forget  as  soon  as  possible. 

But  you  never  quite  forget.     You  visit  the 
woods  or  the  mountains  or  the  sea  in  your  vaca- 

[lo] 


The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors 


tion.  You  loaf  along  trout  streams,  or  in  red 
autumn  woods  with  a  gun  in  your  hands  for  an 
excuse,  or  chase  golf  balls  over  green  hills,  or 
sail  on  the  bay  and  get  becalmed  and  do  not 
care.  For  the  pleasure  of  living  outdoors  you 
are  willing  to  have  your  eyes  smart  from  the 
smoke  of  the  camp  fire,  and  to  be  wet  and  cold, 
and  to  fight  mosquitoes  and  flies.  You  like  the 
feel  of  it,  and  you  wait  for  that  sudden  sense  of 
romance  everywhere  which  is  the  touch  of  some- 
thing big  and  simple  and  beautiful.  It  is 
always  beyond  the  walls,  that  something,  but 
most  of  us  have  been  bullied  by  them  so  much 
that  we  have  to  go  far  away  to  find  it;  then  we 
can  bring  it  home  and  remember. 

Charlotte  and  I  knew  the  outdoors  a  little. 
Though  we  were  middle-aged,  mothers  of  fami- 
lies and  deeply  involved  in  the  historic  struggle 
for  the  vote,  we  sometimes  looked  at  the  sky.  In 
our  remote  youth  we  had  had  a  few  brief  experi- 
ences of  the  mountains  and  the  woods;  I  had 
some  not  altogether  contemptible  peaks  to  my 
credit  and  she  had  canoed  in  the  Canadian  wilds, 
so  when  we  decided  that  a  vacation  was  due  us 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


we  chose  the  outdoors.  Our  labors  had  been 
arduous,  divided  as  they  were  between  the 
clamorings  of  the  young  and  our  militant  mis- 
sion to  free  the  world;  we  were  thoroughly 
habituated  to  walls  and  set  a  high  value  on  their 
contents.  It  was  our  habit  to  tell  large  and 
assorted  audiences  that  freedom  consists  in  cast- 
ing a  ballot  at  regular  intervals  and  taking  your 
rightful  place  in  a  great  democracy;  nor  did  it 
seem  anomalous,  as  perhaps  it  should  have,  that 
our  chiefest  desire  was  to  escape  from  every 
manifestation  of  democracy  in  the  solitariness 
of  some  wild  and  lonely  place  far  from  city  halls, 
smokestacks,  national  organizations,  and  streets 
of  little  houses  all  alike.  For  some  time  the 
desire  had  been  cutting  through  our  work  with 
an  edge  of  restlessness.  We  called  it  "Need  for 
a  Vacation,"  not  knowing  that  every  desire  to 
withdraw  from  the  crowd  is  a  personal  assertion 
and  a  protest  against  the  struggle  and  worry,  the 
bluff  and  banality  and  everlasting  tail-chasing 
which  goes  on  inside  the  walls  of  the  stateliest 
statehouse  and  the  two-room  suite  with  bath.  Our 
real  craving  was  not  for  a  play  hour,  but  for  the 

[12] 


The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors 


wild  and  lonely  place  and  a  different  kind  of 
freedom  from  that  about  which  we  had  been 
preaching. 

Our  choice  of  the  wild  and  lonely  place  was 
circumscribed  by  the  fact  that  we  had  been 
offered  the  use  of  an  automobile  from  Los 
Angeles.  The  automobile  was  a  much  appre- 
ciated gift,  but  we  regretted  that  Los  Angeles 
had  to  be  the  starting  point  because  southern 
California  is  the  blissful  goal  of  the  tired  east 
and  the  tired  east  was  what  we  needed  to  escape 
from.  We  left  home  without  plans — too  many 
plans  in  vacation  are  millstones  hung  around 
your  neck — sure  only  that  such  places  as  Santa 
Barbara,  Redlands,  Riverside,  and  San  Diego 
would  be  for  us  nothing  more  than  points  on  the 
way  to  somewhere  else.  An  atlas  showed  a 
great  empty  space  just  east  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Range  and  the  San  Bernadino  Mountains 
vaguely  designated  as  the  Mojave  Desert.  It 
was  surprising  to  find  the  greater  part  of  south- 
ern California,  the  much-advertised  home  of 
the  biggest  fruit  and  flowers  in  the  world,  in- 
cluded in  it.    A  few  criss-cross  lines  indicated 

[13] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


mountains;  north  of  the  Santa  Fe  Railroad, 
which  crosses  the  Mojave  on  the  way  to  the 
coast,  the  words  Death  Valley  were  printed  be- 
tween two  groups  of  them;  in  the  south  a  big 
white  space  similarly  surrounded  was  the  Impe- 
rial Valley;  the  names  of  a  few  towns  sprangled 
out  from  the  railroad — nothing  else.  Was  the 
desert  just  a  white  space  like  that?  The  word 
had  a  mixed  connotation,  it  suggested  monotony, 
sterility,  death — and  also  big  open  spaces,  gold 
and  blue  sunsets,  and  fascination.  We  recol- 
lected that  some  author  had  written  about  the 
"terrible  fascination"  of  the  desert.  The  white 
blank  on  the  map  looked  very  wild  and  lonely. 
We  went  to  Los  Angeles  on  the  Santa  Fe  in 
order  to  see  what  it  might  contain. 

We  looked  at  it.  After  leaving  the  high  pla- 
teau of  northern  Arizona  the  railroad  crosses  the 
Colorado  River  and  enters  the  lowlands  of  the 
Mojave  Desert.  That  is  the  first  glimpse  the 
tourist  has  of  California,  but  he  hardly  realizes 
that  it  is  California,  for  it  is  so  different  from  the 
pictures  on  the  time-tables  and  hotel  folders. 
At  Needles  he  usually  pulls  down  the  window 

[14] 


The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors 


shades  against  the  too-hot  sun  and  forgets  the 
dust  and  heat  in  the  pages  of  the  last  best  seller, 
or  else  he  goes  out  on  the  California  Limited 
which  spares  its  passengers  the  dusty  horrors  of 
the  desert  by  crossing  the  Mojave  at  night.  His 
California,  and  ours  when  we  left  Chicago,  con- 
sists of  the  charming  bungalows  with  date  palms 
in  their  dooryards  and  yellow  roses  climbing 
their  porches,  the  square  orange  groves  all 
brushed  and  combed  for  dress  parade,  the  pic- 
turesque missions,  and  the  white  towns  with 
streets  shaded  by  feathery  pepper  trees  west  of 
the  backbone  of  the  Sierras,  not  the  hundreds  of 
miles  of  desolation  east  of  them.  Hour  after 
hour  we  pounded  through  it  in  a  hot  monotony 
of  yellow  dust.  Hour  after  hour  great  sweeps 
of  blue-green  brush  led  off  to  mountains  blue 
and  red  against  the  sky.  We  passed  black  lava 
beds,  and  strange  shining  flats  of  baked  clay,  and 
clifflike  rocks.  It  was  very  vast.  The  railroad 
seemed  a  tiny  thread  of  life  through  an  endless 
solitude.  The  train  stopped  at  forlorn  stations 
consisting  of  a  few  buildings  stark  on  the  coarse, 
gravelly  sand.     Sometimes  a  gang  of  swarthy 

[IS] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Mexicans  stopped  work  on  the  track  to  watch 
us  go  by,  sometimes  a  house  stood  alone  in  the 
brush,  sometimes  a  lonely  automobile  crawled 
along  the  highway  beside  the  railroad.  It  was 
empty  and  vast,  and  over  it  all  the  sun  poured 
a  white  flood. 

In  spite  of  the  dust  and  glare  a  fascinated  curi- 
osity kept  us  looking  out  of  the  dirty  windows 
all  day.  Occasionally  dim  wagon  tracks  led 
toward  the  mountains,  some  of  which  were  high 
and  set  on  wide,  solid  foundations.  They  were 
immovable,  old,  old  mountains.  Shadows  cut 
sharply  into  the  smooth  brightness  of  their  sides. 
Their  colors  changed  and  the  sand  ran  between 
them  like  beckoning  roads.  ''Come,"  it  seemed 
to  say,  "and  find  what  is  hidden  here."  Once 
we  saw  a  man  with  three  burros  loaded  with 
cooking  utensils  and  bedding.  He  was  traveling 
across  country  through  the  sagebrush.  Where 
could  he  be  going? 

Unconsciously  I  asked  the  question  aloud  and 
Charlotte  answered : 

"He  is  a  prospector  looking  for  a  gold  mine. 
Don't  you  see  his  pick  on  the  second  mule?" 

[i6] 


The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors 


"Please  say  burro,"  I  pleaded.  "It  gives  a 
better  atmosphere.  Besides  it  is  not  a  mule,  it's 
an  ass." 

"Those  are  the  Old  Dad  Mountains  over 
there,  those  big  rosy  ones.  That's  where  he  is 
going,  up  the  long  path  of  sand.  He  will  camp 
there.  Perhaps  he  is  not  a  prospector,  he  may 
have  a  mine  already." 

"Of  course  he  has  one,"  I  assented.  "All  the 
prospectors  are  dead.  They  died  of  thirst  in 
Death  Valley." 

"My  prospector  did  not.  He  is  going  to  his 
mine.  He  tries  to  work  it  himself  but  it  does 
not  pay  very  well  because  he  can't  get  enough 
out,  and  he  can't  sell  it  because  too  many  booms 
have  failed,  and  nobody  will  invest.  So  he  goes 
up  and  down  in  the  sun  and  has  a  good  time." 

Perhaps  you  could  have  a  good  time  going  up 
and  down  in  the  sun  through  those  empty  spaces 
that  stretched  so  endlessly  on  either  side  of  the 
track.  I  wondered  if  we  might  not  go  to  the 
Imperial  Valley  and  see  that  strange  thing,  the 
new  Salton  Sea,  a  lake  in  the  desert;  but  Char- 
lotte objected  because  that  part  of  the  white 

["7] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


blank  was  partially  under  irrigation,  too  near 
the  coast,  and  would  be  too  civilized  and  full  of 
ranches.  I  doubted  much  if  the  tired  east  went 
there  for  I  thought  that  it  was  the  desert  like 
this,  only  hotter,  worse.  She  declared  that  the 
tired  east  went  everywhere  that  it  could  get  to. 
Evidently  it  could  not  reach  Mojave,  for  cer- 
tainly it  was  not  rushing  around  in  automobiles 
trying  to  be  happy,  nor  pouring  the  savings  for 
its  short  holiday  into  the  money  bags  of  con- 
scienceless hotel  companies.  Mojave  was  indeed 
a  blank,  a  wild  and  lonely  place. 

"I  think,"  Charlotte  remarked  after  a  time, 
"that  we  will  go  to  Death  Valley." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  am  tired  of  looking  at  the  Twenty 
Mule  Team  Borax  boxes  and  wondering  what 
kind  of  place  they  came  from  that  could  have  a 
name  like  that." 

I  thought  it  was  not  a  sufficient  reason  for  me 
to  risk  my  life. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  it  is  the  wildest  and 
loneliest  place  of  all.  Nobody  goes  there  except 
your  prospectors,  and  you  say  they  are  all  dead. 

[i8] 


The  Feel  of  the  Outdoors 


Think  of  the  gold  and  jewels  they  did  not  find 
lying  around  everywhere.  Think  of  the  hot- 
ness  and  brightness.  It  must  be  an  awful,  lone- 
some, sparkling  place." 

It  must  bel  Those  reasons  appealed  to  me, 
but  the  idea  was  a  bit  upsetting  considering  that 
we  had  started  for  a  happy-go-lucky  vacation,  a 
little  like  playing  with  a  kitten  and  having  it 
turn  into  a  tiger.  Mojave  was  like  a  tiger,  terri- 
ble and  fascinating.  From  the  windows  of  the 
Santa  Fe  train  it  was  a  savage,  ruthless-looking 
country,  naked  in  the  sun.  It  repelled  us  and 
held  us,  we  could  not  keep  our  eyes  ofif  it.  They 
ached  from  straining  to  pierce  the  distances 
where  the  beckoning  roads  were  lost  in  bright- 
ness. Mountains  and  valleys  full  of  outdoors, 
nothing  but  outdoors!  What  was  the  feel  of 
being  alone  in  the  sagebrush?  How  free  the 
sweep  of  the  wind  must  be,  how  hot  the  sun,  how 
immense  the  deep  night  sky! 

Thus  the  wild  and  lonely  place  was  selected. 
A  strange  outdoors  for  a  holiday  truly,  and  we 
had  an  adventure  with  it. 


[>9] 


II 

How  We  Found  Mojave 

WHEN  the  automobile  was  delivered 
into  our  hands  at  Los  Angeles  we 
wanted  to  turn  around  immediately 
and  drive  back  through  the  Cajon  Pass  into  the 
Mojave  Desert,  but  our  inquiries  about  direc- 
tions met  with  discouragement  on  every  side.  It 
seemed  to  be  unheard  of  for  two  women  to 
attempt  such  a  thing;  the  distances  between  the 
towns  where  we  could  get  accommodations  were 
too  great  and  the  roads  were  apt  to  have  long 
stretches  of  sand  where  we  would  get  stuck. 
Our  friends  drew  a  dismal  picture  of  us  sitting 
out  in  the  sagebrush  beside  a  disabled  car  and 
slowly  starving  to  death. 

"You  could  not  fix  it,"  they  said,  "and  what 
would  you  do?" 

We  suggested  that  we  might  wait  until  some- 
body came  along. 

[20] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


They  assured  us  that  nobody  ever  came  along. 

We  went  to  the  Automobile  Club;  they  re- 
ceived us  with  enthusiasm  and  told  us  about  all 
the  places  California  is  proud  of  and  how  to 
get  to  them,  but  California  seems  not  to  be  proud 
of  the  desert,  for  when  we  mentioned  it  our 
advisers  became  gloomy.  They  seemed  to  have 
no  very  definite  information  and  were  sure  we 
would  not  like  it.  In  the  face  of  so  much  dis- 
couragement we  hardly  dared  to  ask  about  Death 
Valley  and  when  we  did,  hesitatingly,  the  ques- 
tion was  ignored.  We  simply  could  not  get 
there,  nobody  ever  went.  The  Imperial  Valley 
seemed  to  be  almost  as  bad.  One  of  the  maps 
they  gave  us  showed  a  main  highway  from  San 
Diego  over  into  it,  but  they  said  that  it  was  only 
a  gravel  road,  mountainous  and  steep,  and  that 
we  had  better  stick  to  the  main  routes.  Evidently 
they  had  no  faith  in  our  skill  as  drivers,  nor 
belief  in  our  purpose,  so  we  soon  gathered  up 
the  maps  and  innumerable  folders  about  resort 
hotels,  thanked  them,  and  went  our  way. 

The  collection  contained  no  map  of  the  Mo- 
jave.   She  had  called  us,  but  not  loudly  enough 

[2.] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


as  yet,  and  now  that  we  no  longer  saw  her  we 
remembered  her  terribleness  more  than  her  fas- 
cination. We  would  content  ourselves  with  the 
Imperial  Valley,  at  least  for  a  beginning;  but 
we  said  nothing  more  about  it  and  started  down 
the  coast  with  every  appearance  of  having  a 
ladylike  programme.  In  our  then  mood  we  hated 
the  coast  and  were  guilty  of  speeding  along  the 
fine  macadam  between  Los  Angeles  and  San 
Diego  in  our  eagerness  to  leave  it.  We  turned 
due  east  from  the  green  little  city  on  the  shores 
of  its  beautiful  harbor  and  headed  for  the  desert. 
Our  unsatisfactory  interview  at  the  Automobile 
Club  had  led  us  to  believe  that  the  Imperial 
Valley,  irrigated  or  not,  was  a  wild  and  lonely 
place,  the  desert  itself,  for  it  seemed  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  difficulties. 

The  road  from  San  Diego  proved  to  be  good, 
presenting  no  hindrances  not  easily  surmounted, 
and  as  we  drove  along  it  we  told  each  other  what 
we  thought  about  the  Automobile  Club.  Grad- 
ually the  character  of  the  country  changed.  A 
little  of  the  prickly,  spiky  desert  vegetation  with 
which  we  were  to  become  so  familiar  appeared. 

[22] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


The  round  hills  gave  way  to  piles  of  bare,  col- 
ored rock,  the  soil  became  a  gravelly  sand  on 
which  scrub  oak  and  manzanita  grew.  The 
houses  became  fewer.  In  one  place  we  had  to 
detour  and  found  deep,  soft  sand,  nothing  to 
the  sand  of  a  real  desert  road,  but  we  did  not 
know  that  then.  The  change  was  subtle,  yet  we 
felt  it.  The  country  took  on  the  harshness  that 
had  repelled  us  from  the  train-windows.  Being 
alone  in  it  was  at  first  a  little  dreadful. 

After  a  day  or  so  of  leisurely  driving  we  came 
suddenly  to  the  edge  of  the  valley.  The  ground 
fell  before  us,  cut  into  rough  canyons  and  foot- 
hills, two  thousand  feet  to  a  blue  depth.  It  was 
like  a  great  hole  full  of  blue  mist,  surrounded 
by  red  and  chocolate-colored  mountains.  Noth- 
ing was  clear  down  there  though  the  mountains 
were  sharply  defined  and  had  indigo  shadows  on 
them.  The  valley  was  a  pure,  light  blue,  of  the 
quality  of  the  sky,  as  though  the  sky  reached 
down  into  it.  We  lingered  a  long  time  eating 
our  lunch  on  a  jagged  rock,  trying  to  pierce  the 
blue  veils  and  see  the  Salton  Sea,  a  big  salt  lake 
which  we  knew  was  there  with  the  tracks  of  the 

[23] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Southern  Pacific  beside  it,  the  sand  dunes  we  had 
heard  of,  and  the  town  of  El  Centro  where  we 
were  to  spend  the  night.  We  could  see  nothing 
of  them,  only  a  phantasy  of  changing  color,  an 
unreality. 

We  found  the  whole  desert  full  of  drama,  but 
the  Imperial  Valley  is  perhaps  the  most  dra- 
matic spot  of  all,  except  Death  Valley,  that 
other  deep  hole  below  sea-level  which  is  so  much 
more  remote  and  so  utterly  lonely.  The  great 
basin  of  the  Imperial  Valley  was  once  a  part  of 
the  ocean  until  the  gradual  silting  up  of  its 
narrow  opening  separated  it  from  the  Gulf  of 
California.  The  bottom  of  the  valley  then  be- 
came an  inland  sea  which  slowly  evaporated 
under  the  hot  sun,  leaving  as  it  receded  a  thick 
deposit  of  salt  on  the  sand.  At  last  the  valley 
was  dry,  a  deep  glistening  bowl  between  choco- 
late-colored mountains,  a  white  desolation  un- 
disturbed by  man  or  beast,  covered  with  silence. 
For  ages  it  lay  thus  while  morning  and  evening 
painted  the  hills. 

Then  the  railroad  came  with  its  thread  of 
life,  connecting  Yuma  with  San  Bernadino  and 

[2+] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


Los  Angeles.  Soon  a  salt-works  was  built  in 
what  had  once  been  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  and 
later  an  irrigation-system  for  the  southern  end 
of  the  valley  from  the  Colorado  River  which 
flows  just  east  of  the  Chocolate  Mountains.  The 
white  desolation  was  made  to  bloom  and,  in 
spite  of  the  intense  heat  of  summer,  has  become 
one  of  the  richest  farming  districts  of  California. 
But  the  drama  is  still  going  on.  A  few  years  ago 
the  untamed  Colorado  River  that  had  fought 
its  way  through  the  Grand  Canyon  and  come 
two  hundred  miles  across  the  desert  turned  wild 
and  flooded  into  the  Imperial  Valley.  It  was 
shut  out  again,  but  it  left  the  new  Salton  Sea  in 
the  old  ocean  bed.  Its  yellow  waves  now  break 
near  the  irrigated  area;  it  drowned  the  salt 
works.  The  Salton  Sea  is  slowly  vanishing  as 
its  predecessor  did;  in  a  little  while  the  valley 
will  again  be  dry  and  white  and  glistening. 

The  road  descended  before  us  in  jigjags  to 
the  blue  depth.  It  was  a  good  road  but  narrow 
in  places,  dropping  sheer  at  the  edge,  and  steep. 
Very  carefully  we  drove  down,  emerging  at  last 
through  a  narrow,  rough  canyon  onto  the  sandy 

[25] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


floor  of  the  valley.  A  macadam  road  led  like  a 
shining  band  through  the  sagebrush.  This  evi- 
dence of  civilization  was  strange  in  the  sur- 
rounding wilderness,  for  as  yet  we  could  see  no 
sign  of  life  in  the  valley.  The  sand  came  up  to 
the  edge  of  the  road  and  was  blown  into  dunes 
between  us  and  the  new  sea.  There  was  nothing 
but  sunshine  and  sagebrush  and  flowers.  The 
flowers  amazed  us,  for  why  should  they  grow 
there?  There  was  a  yellow  kind  that  outshone 
our  perennial  garden  coreopsis,  and  numberless 
little  flowers  pressed  close  to  the  sand  with 
spread-out  velvet,  or  shining,  or  crinkled  blue 
or  frosted  leaves.  We  had  to  get  out  of  the  car 
to  see  them,  and  whenever  we  got  out  we  felt 
the  heat  blaze  around  us.  We  were  below  sea- 
level  and  even  in  February  it  was  very  hot.  The 
light  was  almost  blinding,  and  a  silver  heat- 
shimmer  swam  between  us  and  the  mountain- 
walls.  The  mountains  seemed  to  be  of  many 
colors  which  changed  as  the  afternoon  advanced. 
The  sun  set  in  a  more  vivid  purple  and  gold  than 
we  had  ever  seen. 

We  lingered  so  long  looking  at  the  strange 

[26] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


plants  and  flowers  that  twilight  found  us  still 
alone  with  the  desert.  Only  the  white  macadam 
band  promised  any  end  to  it.  Realizing  that 
night  was  coming  and  we  had  an  unknown  num- 
ber of  miles  before  us  we  stepped  on  the  accel- 
erator with  more  energy  than  wisdom.  The  re- 
sult was  a  loud  explosion  of  one  of  the  brand- 
new  rear  tires.  We  found  the  tire  so  hot  that 
we  had  to  wait  for  it  to  cool  before  we  could 
change  it,  and  the  road  hot  to  touch  though  the 
sun  had  been  down  for  some  time.  We  called 
ourselves  all  manner  of  names  for  being  such 
fools  as  to  try  to  drive  fast  on  that  sizzling  sur- 
face. It  was  the  first  practical  lesson  about 
getting  along  on  the  desert. 

Soon  after  that  we  came  to  an  irrigation-ditch. 
Instantly  everything  was  changed  and  we  were 
in  a  farming  country.  El  Centro  is  a  hustling 
town  with  a  modern  four-story  hotel.  We 
wished  it  were  not  four  stories  when  we  learned 
that  part  of  it  had  recently  been  shaken  down  by 
an  earthquake,  and  especially  when  we  experi- 
enced three  small  shocks  during  that  night.  The 
earthquakes  themselves  did  not  seem  surprising, 

[27] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


they  were  a  fitting  part  of  the  weird  experiences 
of  the  day.  We  felt  as  though  we  had  been 
very  near  to  the  elemental  forces  of  nature;  we 
had  been  with  the  bare  earth  and  volcanic  rocks 
and  strange  plants  that  flourish  in  dryness,  and 
felt  the  unmitigated  beat  of  the  sun.  It  was 
like  seeing  the  great  drama  of  nature  unveiled, 
fierce  and  beautiful. 

We  stayed  several  days  in  the  Imperial  Val- 
ley, visiting  the  Salton  Sea,  figuring  out  the 
beach  lines  of  that  other  more  ancient  sea,  and 
walking  among  the  sand  dunes.  We  found  that 
we  always  went  away  from  the  farms  into  the 
desert.  She  was  calling  us  loudly  enough  now. 
We  heard  her  and  were  determined  to  find  more 
of  her.  When  we  tried  to  go  on,  however,  we 
met  with  the  same  universal  discouragement.  In 
El  Centro  they  said  that  the  road  out  through 
Yuma  to  the  desert  east  of  the  Chocolate  Moun- 
tains was  very  bad,  and  the  road  up  the  Valley 
through  Palm  Springs  and  Banning  no  road  at 
all.  Besides,  there  was  no  water  anj^where. 
Later  we  found  out  that  none  of  these  things 
were  exactly  true,  but  it  probably  seemed  the 

[28] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


best  advice  to  give  two  lone  women  with  no 
experience  of  desert  roads.  Our  appearance 
must  have  been  against  us.  Certainly  it  was  no 
lack  of  persistence,  for  we  interviewed  every- 
body, hotel-managers,  ranchers,  druggists  and 
garage-men.  They  all  looked  us  over  and  gave 
the  same  advice.  As  far  as  we  could  learn,  the 
Mojave  Desert  which  we  tried  to  go  to  in  the 
first  place  was  where  we  should  be.  We  sus- 
pect now  that  they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  us. 

We  returned  to  Los  Angeles  and  attacked  the 
Automobile  Club  again.  As  before  we  had  to 
listen  to  arguments  about  the  roads  and  the  sand 
and  the  distances  and  the  accommodations,  but 
this  time  we  listened  unmoved.  With  a  defiant 
feeling  very  reminiscent  of  youth  we  purchased 
a  shovel  and  two  big  canteens  to  fasten  on  the 
running-board  because  we  had  observed  that  all 
the  cars  in  the  Imperial  Valley  were  thus 
equipped.  These  implements  gave  us  a  feeling 
of  preparedness.  We  also  bought  some  blankets 
and  food  lest  we  should  break  down  on  a  lonely 
road.  We  knew  what  we  wanted  now  and  the 
Automobile  Club  found  a  map.     It  was  an  in- 

[29] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


spiring  map  covered  with  a  network  of  black 
roads  and  many  towns  in  bold  type.  We  studied 
it  and  found  that  we  could  never  get  more  than 
thirty  miles  from  somewhere,  and  we  thought 
we  could  walk  that  if  we  had  to.  For  some 
reason  no  one  told  us  to  beware  of  abandoned 
towns  and  abandoned  roads,  perhaps  they  did 
not  know  about  them.  One  of  the  black  lines 
led  straight  toward  Death  Valley.  Once  more 
we  said  nothing  about  our  destination,  and 
started. 

A  good  road  led  through  the  Cajon  Pass  to 
Victorville  and  thence  over  sand  dotted  with 
groves  of  Joshua  palms  to  Barstow.  A  Joshua 
palm  is  a  grotesque  tree-yucca  which  appears 
wherever  the  mesas  of  the  Mojave  rise  to  an  ele- 
vation of  a  few  thousand  feet.  It  becomes  tv/enty 
feet  high  in  some  places  and  its  ungainly  arms 
stick  up  into  the  sky.  It  has  long,  dark  green, 
pointed  leaves  ending  in  sharp  thorns  like  the 
yucca.  It  attains  to  great  age  and  the  dead 
branches,  split  off  from  the  trunk  or  lying  on 
the  ground,  look  as  though  they  were  cov- 
ered with  matted  gray  hair.     Charlotte  and  I 

[30] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


never  liked  them  much,  they  seemed  like  mon- 
sters masquerading  as  trees;  but  in  that  first 
encounter,  when  we  drove  through  them  mile 
after  mile  in  a  desolation  broken  only  by  the 
narrow  ribbon  of  the  gravel  road,  they  were 
distinctly  unpleasant  and  we  were  glad  when 
we  left  them  behind  at  Barstow. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  choice  of  routes  from 
that  town  so  we  had  an  ice  cream  soda  and  inter- 
viewed the  druggist,  having  discovered  that 
druggists  are  among  the  most  helpful  of  citizens. 
He  proved  to  be  an  enthusiast  about  the  desert, 
the  first  we  had  met,  and  we  warmed  to  him.  He 
brought  out  an  album  full  of  kodak-pictures  of 
the  Devil's  Playground  where  the  sand-dunes 
roll  along  before  the  wind.  He  grew  almost 
poetic  about  them,  but  when  we  spread  out  the 
map  and  showed  him  the  proposed  route  to 
Death  Valley  he  grew  grave.  He  said  the  road 
was  so  seldom  traveled  that  in  places  it  was 
obliterated.  We  would  surely  get  lost.  Silver 
Lake,  the  next  town  on  it,  was  eighty-seven  miles 
away.  There  was  one  ranch  on  the  road  but  he 
was  not  sure  any  one  was  living  there.    He  was 

[311 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


not  even  sure  we  could  get  accommodations  at 
Silver  Lake.  Yes,  it  w^as  a  wonderful  country; 
you  went  over  five  mountain  ridges.  He  forgot 
himself  and  began  to  describe  it  glowingly  when 
a  tall  man  who  was  looking  at  the  magazines 
interposed  with:  "Surely,  you  would  not  send 
the  ladies  that  way!" 

The  two  words  "get  lost"  were  what  deterred 
us.  We  felt  we  could  cope  with  most  calamities, 
but  already,  coming  through  the  Joshua  palms, 
we  had  sensed  the  size  and  emptiness  of  Mojave. 
At  least  until  we  were  a  little  better  acquainted 
with  the  strange  land  where  even  the  plants 
seemed  weird,  we  needed  the  reassurance  of  a 
very  definite  ribbon  of  road  ahead.  We  decided 
to  go  to  Randsburg,  then  to  Ballarat  and  try  to 
get  into  Death  Valley  from  there.  The  drug- 
gist doubted  if  we  could  get  into  the  valley  at 
all.  We  began  to  suspect  that  it  might  be  diflli- 
cult. 

Randsburg,  Atolia  and  Johannesburg  are 
mining  towns  close  together  about  forty  miles 
north  of  Barstow.  The  road  there  was  no  such 
highway  as  we  had  been  traveling  upon;  often 

[32] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


it  was  only  two  ruts  among  the  sagebrush,  but 
it  was  well  enough  marked  to  follow  easily. 
Great  sloping  mesas  spread  for  miles  on  either 
side  of  the  track,  rising  to  rocky  crowns.  All 
the  big,  open,  gradually  ascending  sweeps  are 
called  mesas  on  the  Mojave,  though  they  are  in 
no  sense  table-lands  like  the  true  mesas  of  New 
Mexico  and  Arizona.  The  groves  of  Joshua 
palms  had  disappeared;  we  were  lower  down 
now  where  only  greasewood  and  sagebrush  grew. 
The  unscientific  like  us,  who  accept  the  word 
**mesa,"  lump  together  all  the  varieties  of  low 
prickly  brush  as  sagebrush.  The  little  bushes 
grew  several  feet  apart  on  the  white,  gravelly 
ground,  each  little  bush  by  itself.  They 
smoothed  out  in  the  distance  like  a  carpet  woven 
of  all  shades  of  blue  and  green.  The  occasional 
greasewood,  a  graceful  shrub  covered  with  small 
dark  green  leaves,  waved  in  the  wind.  Unob- 
structed by  trees  the  mesa  seemed  endless.  We 
stopped  the  car  to  feel  the  silence  that  enveloped 
it.  The  place  was  vast  and  empty  as  the 
stretches  we  had  seen  from  the  railroad,  and 
now  we  found  how  still  they  all  had  been.    The 

[33] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


strong,  fresh  wind  pressed  steadily  against  us 
like  a  wind  at  sea. 

Atolia  was  the  first  town,  golden  in  the  setting 
fiun,  on  the  shoulder  of  a  stern,  red  mountain. 
Before  it  a  wide  valley  fell  away  in  whose  bot- 
tom gleamed  the  white  floor  of  a  dry  lake.  All 
the  mountain  tops  were  on  fire.  The  three  towns 
were  very  close  together,  separated  by  the  shoul- 
der of  the  red  mountain.  Randsburg  was  the 
largest,  whose  one  street  was  a  steep  hill.  It 
had  a  score  of  buildings  and  two  or  three  stores. 
Johannesburg,  just  over  the  crest,  had  six  build- 
ings, among  them  an  adobe  hotel  and  a  large 
garage.  All  three  towns  ornamented  the  map 
with  big  black  letters.  We  thought  we  were 
approaching  cities  and  found  instead  little 
wooden  houses  set  on  the  sand  with  the  great 
simplicity  of  the  desert  at  their  doors. 

According  to  that  map  Death  Valley  was  now 
not  more  than  sixty  miles  away.  We  thoroughly 
startled  the  inhabitants  of  Johannesburg,  famil- 
iarly known  as  Joburg,  by  the  announcement 
that  we  were  going  there.  We  did  not  yet  know 
how  startling  an  announcement  it  was;  but  these 

[34] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


real  dwellers  on  the  desert,  intimately  acquainted 
with  her  difficulties,  met  our  ignorance  in  a 
more  helpful  spirit  than  any  of  our  other  ad- 
visers had,  even  the  agreeable  druggist.  Hardly 
any  one  ever  goes  to  places  like  Joburg  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  going,  and  they  seemed  pleased 
that  we  had  come.  They  described  the  Panamint 
Mountains  which  shut  off  the  valley  from  that 
side  with  a  barrier  nearly  12,000  feet  high. 
There  are  only  two  passes,  the  Wingate  Pass 
through  which  the  borax  used  to  be  hauled  and 
which  is  now  blocked  with  fallen  rocks,  and  a 
pass  up  by  Ballarat.  They  had  not  heard  of 
any  cars  going  in  for  some  time.  Unhappily 
Ballarat  had  been  abandoned  for  several  years 
and  we  could  not  stay  there  unless  we  could  find 
the  Indians,  and  no  one  knew  where  they  were. 
None  of  the  Joburgians  whom  we  first  inter- 
viewed had  ever  been  to  Death  Valley. 

It  was  discouraging,  but  we  persevered  until 
we  found  a  real  old-timer.  He  was  known  as 
Shady  Myrick.  We  never  discovered  his 
Christian  name  though  he  was  a  famous  desert 
character.    Wherever  we  went  afterward  every- 

[35] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


one  knew  Shady.  Evidently  the  name  was  not 
descriptive  for  all  agreed  on  his  honesty  and 
goodness.  He  was  an  old  man,  rather  deaf, 
with  clear,  very  straightforward-gazing  eyes. 
Most  of  his  life  had  been  spent  on  the  Mojave 
as  a  prospector  and  miner,  and  much  of  it  in 
Death  Valley  itself.  The  desert  held  him  for  her 
own  as  she  does  all  old-timers.  He  was  under 
the  "terrible  fascination."  As  soon  as  we  ex- 
plained that  we  had  come  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  visit  his  beloved  land  he  was  eagerly 
interested  and  described  the  wonders  of  Death 
Valley,  its  beautiful  high  mountains,  its  shining 
white  floor,  its  hot  brightness,  its  stillness,  and 
the  flowers  that  sometimes  deck  it  in  the  spring. 

"If  you  go  there,"  he  said,  "you  will  see  some- 
thing that  you'll  never  see  anywhere  else  in  the 
world." 

He  had  gem  mines  in  the  Panamints  and  was 
in  the  habit  of  going  oflf  with  his  mule-team  for 
months  at  a  time.  He  even  said  that  he  would 
take  us  to  the  valley  himself  were  he  a  younger 
man.  We  assured  him  that  we  would  go  with 
him  gladly.    We  urged  him — you  had  only  to 

[36] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


look  into  his  eyes  to  trust  him — promising  to  do 
all  the  work  if  he  would  furnish  the  wagon  and 
be  the  guide,  innocently  unaware  of  the  absurdity 
of  such  a  proposal  in  the  burning  heat  of  Death 
Valley;  but  he  only  smiled  gently,  and  said  that 
he  was  too  old. 

Silver  Lake  turned  out  to  be  the  place  for  us 
to  go  after  all.  He  described  how  we  could 
drive  straight  on  from  Joburg,  a  hundred  and 
sixteen  miles.  There  was  a  sort  of  a  road  all  the 
way.  He  drew  a  map  on  the  sand  and  said  that 
we  could  not  possibly  miss  it  for  a  truck  had 
come  over  six  weeks  before  and  we  could  follow 
its  tracks. 

"It  ain't  blowed  much,  or  rained  since,"  he 
remarked. 

"But  suppose  we  should  get  lost,  what  would 
we  do?" 

"Why  should  you  get  lost?  Anyway,  you 
could  turn  around  and  come  back." 

We  looked  at  each  other  doubtfully.  In  the 
far-spreading  silence  around  Joburg  the  idea  of 
getting  lost  was  more  dreadful  than  it  had  been 
at  Barstow.    There  was  not  even  a  ranch  in  the 

[37] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


whole  hundred  and  sixteen  miles.    We  hesitated. 

"You  are  well  and  strong,  ain't  you?"  he 
asked.  "You  can  take  care  of  yourselves  as  well 
as  anybody.    Why  can't  you  go?" 

"You  have  lived  in  this  country  so  long,  Mr. 
Myrick,"  I  tried  to  explain,  "you  do  not  under- 
stand how  strange  it  is  to  a  newcomer.  How 
would  we  recognize  those  mountains  you  speak 
of  when  we  do  not  even  know  how  the  desert- 
mountains  look?  How  could  we  find  the  spring 
where  you  say  we  might  camp  when  we  have 
never  seen  one  like  it?" 

"You  can  do  it,"  he  insisted,  "that's  how  you 
learn." 

"And  there  is  the  silence,  Mr.  Myrick,"  I 
went  on,  hating  to  have  him  scorn  us  for  cow- 
ards, "and  the  big  emptiness." 

He  understood  that  and  his  face  grew  kind. 

"You  get  used  to  it,"  he  said  gently. 

It  was  refreshing  to  meet  a  man  who  looked 
into  your  feminine  eyes  and  said :  "You  can  do 
it."  It  made  us  feel  that  we  had  to  do  it.  We 
spent  a  whole  day  on  a  hilltop  near  Joburg  look- 
ing longingly  over  the  sinister,  beautiful  moun- 

[38] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


tains  and  trying  to  get  up  our  courage.  Happily 
we  were  spared  the  decision.  Two  young  miners 
at  Atolia  sent  word  that  they  were  going  over 
to  Silver  Lake  in  a  few  days  and  would  be  glad 
to  have  us  follow  them.  Perhaps  it  was 
Shady's  doing.  We  accepted  the  invitation 
with  gratitude. 

We  loafed  around  Joburg  during  the  inter- 
vening days.  The  stern,  red  mountains  were 
full  of  mine-holes,  but  most  of  the  mines  were 
not  being  worked  and  the  three  towns  were  dead. 
Everywhere  on  the  Mojave  Desert  mining  activ- 
ity had  fallen  off  markedly  after  the  beginning  of 
the  war.  The  population  of  the  three  towns  had 
dwindled  away  and  the  few  people  who  remained 
did  so  because  they  still  had  faith  in  the  red 
mountain  and  hoped  that  the  place  might  boom 
again.  The  big  hotel  at  Joburg,  which  was 
attractively  built  around  a  court  and  which 
could  accommodate  twenty  to  thirty  guests,  was 
empty  save  for  us.  We  looked  at  and  admired 
innumerable  specimens  of  ore.  They  were- 
everywhere,  in  the  hotel-office,  in  the  general 
store,  in  the  windows  of  the  houses.     Everyone 

[39] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


had  some  shining  bit  of  the  earth  which  he 
treasured.  We  bought  some  of  Shady  Myrick's 
cut  stones  and  received  presents  of  gold  ore  and 
fine  pieces  of  bloodstone  and  jasper  in  the  rough. 
We  enlisted  the  services  of  the  garage  to  get 
our  car  in  the  best  possible  condition  for  the 
journey  across  the  uncharted  desert.  The  gen- 
eral opinion  held  that  it  was  too  heavy  for  such 
traveling;  the  next  time  we  should  bring  a  Ford. 
When  the  two  young  men  appeared  early  on  the 
appointed  morning  with  a  light  Ford  truck  dis- 
mantled of  everything  except  the  essential  ma- 
chinery they  also  looked  over  our  big,  red  car 
questioningly.  They  feared  we  would  get  stuck 
in  the  sand  and  jammed  on  rocks;  but  gener- 
ously admitted  themselves  in  the  wrong  when, 
later  in  the  day,  they  stuck  and  we  did  not.  Of 
course  they  had  the  advantage,  for  we  would 
probably  have  remained  where  we  stopped, 
while  the  four  of  us  were  able  to  lift  and  push 
the  little  truck  out  of  its  troubles.  It  was  the 
most  disreputable-looking  car  we  had  ever  en- 
countered even  among  Fords,  a  moving  junk- 
pile  loaded  with  miscellaneous  shabby  baggage, 

[40] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


tools,  and  half-worn-out  extra  tires.  Our  new 
friends  matched  it  in  appearance.  They  looked 
as  tough  as  the  Wild  West  story-tellers  would 
have  us  believe  that  most  miners  are.  We  have 
found  out  that  most  miners  are  not,  though  we 
hate  to  shatter  that  dear  myth  of  the  movies.  If 
you  were  to  meet  on  any  civilized  road  the  outfit 
which  we  followed  that  day  from  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning  until  dark  you  would  instantly 
take  to  the  ditch  and  give  it  the  right  of  way. 

The  drive  was  wild  and  fearful  and  wonder- 
ful. The  bandits  led  us  over  and  around  moun- 
tains, down  washes  and  across  the  beds  of  dry 
lakes.  Often  there  was  no  sign  of  a  road,  at 
least  no  sign  that  was  apparent  to  us.  On  the 
desert  you  must  travel  one  of  two  ways,  either 
along  the  water-courses  or  across  them.  It  is 
strange  to  find  a  country  dying  of  thirst  cut  into 
a  rough  chaos  by  water-channels.  Rain  on  the 
Mojave  is  a  cloud-burst.  The  water  rushes  down 
from  the  rocky  heights  across  the  long,  sloping 
mesas,  digging  innumerable  trenches,  until  it 
reaches  a  main  stream-bed  leading  to  the  lowest 
point  in  the  valley.    When  you  go  in  the  same 

[41] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


direction  as  the  water  you  usually  follow  up  or 
down  the  dry  stream-beds,  or  washes,  but  when 
you  cross  the  watershed  you  must  crawl  as  best 
you  can  over  the  parallel  trenches  which  are 
sometimes  small  and  close  together  like  chuck- 
holes  in  a  bad  country  road,  and  sometimes  wide 
and  deep.  One  of  the  uses  of  a  shovel,  which 
we  found  out  on  that  day,  is  to  cut  down  the  banks 
of  washes  that  are  too  high  and  steep  for  a  car 
to  cross. 

Most  of  the  mountains  of  the  Mojave  are 
separate  masses  rather  than  continuous  ranges. 
Between  them  the  mesas  curve,  sometimes  fall- 
ing into  deep  valleys.  Instead  of  foothills,  long 
gradual  slopes  always  lead  up  to  the  rock  battle- 
ments, the  result  of  the  Avearing  down  of  count- 
less ages,  the  wide  foundations  that  give  the 
ancient  mountains  an  appearance  of  great  repose. 
They  are  solid  and  everlasting.  The  valleys  are 
like  great  bowls  curving  up  gently  to  sudden, 
perpendicular  sides.  The  mesas  always  look 
smooth,  beautiful  sweeps  that  completely  satisfy 
the  eye.    It  rests  itself  upon  them. 

When  the  valleys  are  deep  they  usually  con- 

[42] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


tain  a  dry  lake,  baked  mud  of  a  white,  yellow,  or 
brownish-purple  color.  Crossing  dry  lakes  is 
a  curious  experience.  They  never  look  very 
wide,  but  are  often  several  miles  across.  You 
need  a  whole  new  adjustment  of  ideas  of  distance 
on  the  desert  for  the  air  is  so  clear  that  distant 
objects  look  stark  and  near.  What  you  judge  to 
be  half  a  mile  usually  turns  out  to  be  five,  and 
four  miles  is  certainly  eighteen.  We  were  always 
deceived  about  distances  until  we  trained  our- 
selves a  little  by  picking  out  some  point  ahead, 
guessing  how  far  it  was,  and  measuring  it  with 
the  cyclometer.  Dry  lakes  are  not  only  deceit- 
ful about  their  size,  but  also  about  their  nature. 
Along  the  edges  is  a  strange  glistening  effect  as 
though  water  were  standing  under  the  shore. 
Often  the  rocks  and  bushes  are  reflected  in  it 
upside  down,  and  if  the  lake  is  large  enough  the 
illusion  of  water  is  perfect.  You  drive  across 
with  a  queer  effect  of  standing  still,  for  there  h 
not  so  much  as  a  stone  to  mark  your  progress.  It 
is  like  being  in  a  boat  on  an  actual  lake.  The 
sunlight  is  very  dazzling  on  the  white  and  yellow 
expanses    and    the    heat-shimmer    makes    the 

[43] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


ground  seem  to  heave.    Sometimes  you  have  the 
illusion  of  going  steeply  up-hill. 

Nothing  grows  in  the  lake-beds,  but  the  mesas 
are  covered  with  the  usual  desert-growths,  sage- 
brush, greasewood  and  many  varieties  of  cacti. 
A  view  from  one  of  the  ridges  is  a  look  into  a 
magical  country.  Only  enchantment  could  pro- 
duce the  pale,  lovely  colors  that  lie  along  the 
mountains  and  the  endless  variety  of  blues  and 
pinks  and  sage-greens  which  flow  over  the  wide, 
sagebrush-covered  mesas.  The  dry  lake  far 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley  shines.  The 
illusion  of  water  at  its  further  edges  is  a  glisten- 
ing brightness.  It  is  hard  to  tell  where  the  baked 
mud  ends  and  the  sand  begins.  It  is  hard  to 
tell  what  are  the  real  colors  and  shapes  of  things. 
If  you  can  linger  a  while  they  change.  The 
valley  never  loses  its  immense  repose,  but  it 
changes  its  colors  as  though  they  were  garments, 
and  it  changes  the  relations  of  things  to  each 
other.  That  violet  crag  looks  very  big  and  im- 
portant while  you  are  toiling  up  the  mesa,  but 
just  as  you  are  crossing  the  ridge  and  look  back 

[44] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


for  the  last  time  you  see  that  the  wine-red  hill 
beside  it  is  really  much  larger. 

For  a  short  distance  we  followed  the  old  trail 
over  which  the  borax  used  to  be  hauled  from 
Death  Valley.  The  familiar  name,  "Twenty- 
Mule-Team  Borax,"  was  touched  with  romance. 
Out  of  the  bottom  of  that  baffling,  inaccessible 
valley,  through  a  pass  by  the  high  Panamint 
Mountains  where  it  is  sixty  miles  between  the 
water-holes,  and  over  this  weird  country  unlike 
any  country  we  had  dreamed  existed  in  the 
world,  this  prosaic  commodity  was  hauled  by 
strings  of  laboring  mules.  They  tugged  through 
the  sand  day  after  day  and  their  drivers  made 
camp-fires  under  the  stars.  We  can  never  see 
that  name  now  on  a  package  of  kitchen-borax, 
humbly  standing  on  the  shelf,  without  going 
again  in  imagination  over  those  two  old,  lonely 
ruts. 

We  lunched  at  a  spring  under  a  cottonwood 
tree — Two  Springs  is  its  name,  the  only  water 
on  the  route.  Some  one  once  tried  to  graze  cattle 
there,  and  the  water  came  through  a  wooden 
trough  into  a  cement  basin.    During  lunch  the 

[4S] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


bandits  entertained  us  with  tales  of  the  desert. 
It  has  its  own  ethics.  You  are  justified  in  kill- 
ing a  man  who  robs  your  camp  or  steals  your 
burros.  Out  there  at  Two  Springs  we  realized 
that  it  was  right.  If  you  lose  your  food  or  your 
pack-animal  you  may  well  lose  your  life.  Many 
a  prospector  has  never  returned.  The  elder  of 
the  bandits  remarked  thoughtfully  that  he  was 
glad  he  had  never  had  to  kill  a  man.  He  knew 
a  fellow  who  had  and  who  was  hounded  to  death 
by  the  memory.  He  was  justified  by  desert- 
ethics,  but  he  had  no  peace  in  his  sleep. 

Toward  sunset  we  went  down  an  endless  slope 
among  mountains,  some  of  which  were  red,  some 
yellow,  some  a  sulphurous  green,  and  some  black. 
A  black  mountain  is  a  sinister  object.  There  is 
a  kind  of  fear  which  does  not  concern  itself  with 
real  things  that  might  happen,  but  is  a  primitive 
fear  of  nature  herself.  Even  the  bandits  admit- 
ted feeling  it  sometimes.  It  is  a  fear  of  some- 
thing impending  in  the  bare  spaces,  as  though 
the  mountains  threatened.  A  little  creeping 
chill  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  cool  of 
evening  kept  us  close  behind  the  Ford.    At  the 

[46] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


bottom  of  the  rough  slope  lay  a  somber  basin 
full  of  shadow,  beyond  which  rose  an  abrupt, 
high  ridge  of  sand.  In  spite  of  us  the  Ford 
gained  there  and  we  saw  it  far  ahead  crawling 
up  the  ridge  like  a  black  bug.  It  seemed  to  stop 
and  jerk  and  stop  and  jerk  again.  Then  it  dis- 
appeared over  the  top.  For  a  few  fearful  mo- 
ments we  were  alone  with  Mojave.  How  could 
rocks  and  sand  and  silence  make  us  afraid  and 
yet  be  so  wonderful?  For  they  were  wonderful. 
The  ridge  was  orange  against  a  luminous-orange 
sky,  the  sand  in  the  shadowy  basin  reached  right 
and  left,  mysteriously  shining,  to  mountains  with 
rosy  tops.  The  darkness  around  us  was  indigo, 
the  two  crooked  ruts  of  the  Ford  were  full  of 
blue. 

Apprehensively,  jerking  and  stopping,  stop- 
ping and  jerking,  as  the  Ford  had  done,  the 
engine  clanking  as  though  it  would  smash  itself 
to  pieces,  the  radiator  boiling  frantically,  we 
bucked  our  way  to  the  summit  of  the  ridge.  It 
looked  down  on  an  immense  dry  lake  in  a  valley 
so  big  that  the  mountains  beyond  were  dim  in 
the  twilight.    At  the  far  side  of  the  lake  stood  a 

[47] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


group  of  eight  or  ten  portable  houses,  bright 
orange  beside  the  purple  darkness  of  the  baked- 
mud  lake.  It  was  the  town  which  we  had  made 
that  incredible  journey  to  reach.  Below  us  we 
could  see  the  little  truck  struggling  through  the 
sand.  Presently  it  reached  the  hard  edge  of  the 
lake  and  merged  with  its  dark  smoothness.  We 
followed  down  the  ridge  in  its  ruts  and  drove 
for  three  miles  straight  across  the  hard  lake-bed 
toward  the  town,  where  now  a  few  lights 
gleamed.  The  orange  faded  from  the  houses 
and  the  whole  valley  became  a  rich  plum-color. 
It  was  dark  when  we  came  out  onto  the  sand 
again  and  drove  into  the  lonely  haflilet. 

A  kindly  German  couple  received  us.  They 
were  as  amazed  to  see  two  women  arrive  in  a  big 
car  as  we  were  at  arriving.  Once  two  men  had 
come  in  a  Cadillac  just  to  see  the  desert,  but 
they  could  remember  no  other  visitors  with  such 
an  unusual  object.  Mrs.  Brauer  doubted  if  we 
would  find  much  to  look  at  in  Silver  Lake.  We 
assured  her  that  we  found  much  already  and 
hoped  to  find  much  more. 

"And  where  did  you  think  you  vas  going?" 

[48] 


How  We  Found  Mojave 


her  husband  asked,  chuckling  vastly  in  the  back- 
ground. 

''To  Death  Valley." 

"Mein  Gottr' 

They  conducted  us  to  a  one-room  shack  beside 
the  tin  can  dump  and  bade  us  be  at  home. 
Strangely  enough  we  felt  at  home.  The  door  of 
the  shack  faced  the  open  desert,  the  threshold 
only  three  inches  above  the  sand.  It  stretched 
away  white  and  still,  radiating  pale  light.  The 
craving  which  had  made  us  seek  a  wild  and 
lonely  place  responded  to  it.  The  night  was  a 
deep-blue,  warm  and  luminous.  A  hard  young 
moon,  sharp  as  a  curved  knife  blade,  hung  over 
the  hills.  We  went  out  into  the  vague  brightness 
among  the  ghostly  bushes,  and  at  last  onto  the 
darkness  of  the  lake-bed.  Beyond  it  the  sand 
gleamed  on  the  ridge  we  had  come  over.  On 
either  side  the  mountains  we  had  feared  were 
strong,  beautiful  silhouettes.  In  the  northwest 
stood  the  mass  of  the  Avawatz,  a  pure  and  noble 
skyline  glowing  with  pale  rose.  The  Avawatz 
had  been  the  most  fearful  mountain  of  all  in  the 
sultry  afternoon,  a  red  conglomeration  of  vol- 

[49] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


canic  hills.  We  walked  on  and  on,  full  of  a 
strange,  terrible  happiness.  The  trackless,  un- 
broken expanse  of  the  lake  seemed  boundless,  the 
mountains  were  never  any  nearer.  We  kept 
looking  back  for  the  reassuring  gleam  of  the 
lamp  we  had  set  in  the  window;  presently  it  was 
lost.  Nothing  indicated  the  whereabouts  of  the 
town,  we  left  no  footprint-trail  on  the  hard  mud, 
every  link  with  mankind  was  gone.  Before 
starting  we  had  located  the  little  houses  in  rela- 
tion to  a  certain  peak  and  we  felt  like  navigators 
in  an  uncharted  sea. 

"We  must  learn  to  steer  by  the  stars,"  Char- 
lotte said.     "We  must  always  remember  that." 

We  stood  still  listening  to  the  silence.  It  was 
immense  and  all  enveloping.  No  murmur  of 
leaves,  nor  drip  of  water,  nor  buzz  of  insects 
broke  it.  It  brooded  around  us  like  a  live 
thing. 

"Do  you  hear  the  universe  moving  on?"  Char- 
lotte whispered. 

"It  is  your  own  heart  beating,"  I  told  her,  but 
I  did  not  believe  it. 

We  had  found  Mojave. 

[50] 


Ill 

The  White  Heart 

WE  had  indeed  found  her.  The  morn- 
ing sun  came  up  over  the  immense 
valley  ringed  with  beautiful,  reposeful 
mountains.  The  big,  empty  mesas  sw^ept  up  to 
them,  streaked  with  purple  and  green  like  the 
sea.  Sometimes  shining  sand  led  between  them 
to  indistinguishable  rose  and  blue.  Such  a  pal- 
ace of  dreams  beckoned  toward  Death  Valley 
behind  Avawatz,  the  sultry,  red  mountain  that 
had  been  so  magical  in  the  night;  and  another 
called  southward  to  the  white  desolation  of  the 
Devil's  Playground  beyond  the  far  end  of  the 
lake  where  stood  a  symmetrical,  black,  mountain- 
mass  with  a  tongue  of  bright  sand  running  up 
it.  The  black  mountain  and  the  shining  tongue 
of  sand  were  reflected  in  an  expanse  of  radiant 
blue  water.  This  was  astonishing  and  we  hast- 
ened to  inquire  the  name  of  the  river  or  lake 

[si] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


that  lit  the  distance  with  such  heavenly  bright- 
ness. The  old  German  chuckled  so  much  that 
he  seemed  about  to  blow  up  with  access  of  mirth. 
Finally  he  was  able  to  explain  that  it  was  only 
a  mirage.  We  watched  it  all  day  and  saw  it 
change  to  a  thin  streak  at  noon  and  widen  again 
at  evening.  The  reflections  of  the  bushes  at  its 
edge  were  so  magnified  that  they  looked  like 
trees.  To  Brauer's  endless  entertainment  we  in- 
sisted that  trees  grew  there. 

Ever  since  leaving  Barstow  we  had  been  pene- 
trating further  and  further  into  the  Mojave. 
With  every  mile  she  had  become  more  terrible 
and  more  beautiful.  The  colors  which  had  de- 
lighted us  at  Joburg  were  pale  beside  the  colors 
around  Silver  Lake,  the  mountains  were  hills 
compared  to  these  beautiful,  sinister  masses. 
The  sun  had  been  brighter  there  than  any  east- 
ern sun,  here  it  was  a  hot,  white  blaze.  All  the 
way  Mojave  had  asserted  herself  more  and  more. 
In  the  Imperial  Valley,  at  Joburg  and  Barstow, 
we  had  felt  men  upon  the  desert,  the  drama  was 
partly  their  drama;  now,  though  they  might  still 
make  roads  and  build  houses,  they  seemed  in- 

[52] 


The  White  Heart 


significant.  We  had  but  to  walk  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  from  Silver  Lake  to  forget  it  and 
be  wrapped  in  the  endless  stillness.  There  was 
something  awful  in  the  silence,  the  awfulness 
which  our  savage  ancestors  felt  and  bequeathed 
to  us  in  our  intangible  fear  of  the  dark  and  of 
the  wilderness,  and  the  fear  of  being  alone 
which  many  people  have;  but  there  was  great- 
ness in  it  too,  the  greatness  which  is  always  to 
be  found  in  the  outdoors.  Balzac  remarks 
that  ''the  desert  is  God  without  humanity." 
Truly  the  earth  lives,  and  the  sun  and  the  stars, 
a  rhythm  beats  in  them  and  unites  them.  They 
are  the  drama  and  the  human  story  is  only  a 
scene. 

The  town  of  Silver  Lake,  such  a  little  oasis 
of  life  in  the  solitude,  is  owned  by  the  Brauers 
who  operate  a  general  store  and  give  board  to 
the  few  travelers  who  come  to  the  mines  in  the 
neighborhood.  They  are  mostly  silver-mines, 
whence  the  name.  A  few  years  ago  there  was 
considerable  activity  when  the  Avawatz  Crown 
and  the  big  silver  mine  at  Riggs  were  in  opera- 
tion.    Miners  came  to  "town"  in  Fords  which 

[53] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


no  doubt  resembled  the  junk  pile  we  had  fol- 
lowed from  Joburg,  and  sometimes  with  pack- 
trains.  The  pack-train  on  the  desert  always  con- 
sists of  a  string  of  burros.  The  burro  in  spite 
of  his  Mexican  name,  is  nothing  more  than  a 
donkey,  the  biblical  ass.  He  seems  to  be  native 
to  all  primitive  places,  the  first  burden-bearer. 
The  prospector  of  the  early  days  with  his  pick 
and  shovel  was  a  picturesque  figure  traveling 
across  the  sandy  stretches  from  water-hole  to 
water-hole.  It  is  often  a  hard  day's-journey  be- 
tween the  infrequent  springs,  sometimes  a  sev- 
eral-days'- journey.,  He  dug  and  broke  the  rock, 
and  sometimes  he  made  his  "strike."  Then  the 
boom  on  the  desert  would  begin.  Settlers  came 
in,  roads  were  built  and  towns  sprang  up.  The 
brutalities  of  mining-camps  which  we  read  of 
were  probably  reflections  of  the  inhospitality  of 
the  land.  The  very  characteristics  which  make 
the  desert  dramatic  and  beautiful  make  it  ter- 
rible for  mankind  to  overcome.  The  expense  of 
mining  operations  in  that  hard  country  proved 
to  be  too  great  unless  the  vein  were  exceptionally 
rich,  and  most  of  the  small  mines  are  now  aban- 

[S4] 


The  White  Heart 


doned.  Nevertheless  you  still  occasionally 
meet  a  prospector  with  his  burros,  and  in  re- 
mote places  like  Silver  Lake  the  Ford  has  not 
entirely  done  away  with  the  pack-train. 

A  number  of  half  wild  burros  wandered 
around  among  the  little  houses  attracted  by  the 
watering-trough  though  there  was  hardly  any- 
thing for  them  to  eat.  The  soil  is  said  to  be  so 
alkalai  that  nothing  will  grow  there  even  under 
irrigation.  A  patch  of  grass  si:^  feet  by  two, 
carefully  cherished  by  the  Brauers,  was  the  only 
green  thing  in  town.  We  saw  the  list  of  electors 
nailed  to  the  door  of  the  general  store.  There 
were  seven  names  on  it. 

A  lonesome  little  railroad  comes  along  the 
edge  of  the  Devil's  Playground  from  Ludlow 
on  the  Santa  Fe,  past  Silver  Lake  to  the  mining 
camps  of  Nevada.  All  the  supplies  for  the 
neighborhood  are  hauled  in  on  it  through  a  coun- 
try of  shifting  sand  where  no  wagon-road  can  be 
maintained.  Even  a  railroad,  the  symbol  of 
civilization,  cannot  break  the  solitude.  Great 
arteries  of  life  like  the  Santa  Fe  and  the  South- 
ern Pacific  become  very  tiny  veins  when  they 

[55] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


cross  the  desert;  the  little  Tonapah  and  Tide- 
water Railroad  hardly  seems  to  exist.  You  do 
not  see  the  track  until  you  stumble  over  it,  the 
telegraph  poles  are  lost  in  the  sagebrush.  There 
are  two  trains  a  week,  up  in  the  morning  and 
down  at  night.  During  breakfast  on  train-day 
a  long  hoot  suddenly  cuts  the  stillness  you  have 
grown  accustomed  to.  You  jump.  Mr.  Brauer 
chuckles  at  you  and  finishes  his  coffee  and  his 
anecdote,  and  gets  up  ponderously  and  knocks 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  says: 

"I  guess  she'll  be  here  pretty  soon  now." 
Presently  you  see  him  sauntering  over  to  the 
station.  In  about  fifteen  minutes  an  ungainly 
line  of  freight-cars  with  a  passenger-coach  or 
two  in  the  rear  comes  swaying  along.  Mrs. 
Brauer  gathers  up  the  dishes  leisurely.  She 
hopes  they  have  brought  the  meat.  The  last 
time  she  had  boarders  they  didn't  bring  any 
meat  for  two  weeks.  If  they  bring  it  she  prom- 
ises to  make  you  a  fine  German  dinner.  She 
never  goes  out  to  look  at  the  train.  Nobody 
does,  except  you,  who  stand  in  the  doorway  and 
wonder  at  it.     Ever  so  long  ago  you  used  to  see 

[56] 


The  White  Heart 


things  that  resembled  it.  It  is  a  curiosity  like 
the  strange,  long  neck  of  the  giraffe.  Like  the 
giraffe  it  has  a  momentary  interest.  It  goes,  and 
the  silence  settles  down  again  with  a  great  yawn. 
The  dry  lake  on  whose  shores  the  town  is 
situated  is  three  miles  wide  and  eighteen  miles 
long,  of  a  brownish-purple  color.  The  surface 
is  hard  and  covered  with  little  ripples  like  pet- 
rified waves.  It  is  the  sink,  or  outlet  of  the 
Mojave  River,  whose  wide,  torn  bed  we  had  seen 
at  Barstow  spanned  by  an  iron  bridge.  The 
river-bed  had  been  as  dry  as  any  part  of  the 
desert,  and  we  had  supposed  it  was  just  an  un- 
usually wide,  deep  wash.  We  now  learned  that 
in  times  of  heavy  rains  or  much  snow  in  the 
northern  mountains  the  Mojave  River  thunders 
under  the  iron  bridge.  On  a  later  trip,  when 
we  were  staying  at  the  Fred  Harvey  Hotel  in 
Barstow,  we  once  saw  it  come  to  life  over-night. 
In  the  evening  its  bed  lay  dry  and  white  under 
the  moonlight,  in  the  morning  it  was  full  of 
hurrying,  turbid  water.  From  Barstow  the 
river-bed  winds  through  the  desert  to  the  purple- 
brown  basin  at  Silver  Lake.     Were  the  Mojave 

[57] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


a  normal  river  its  water  would  always  flow  down 
there  and  the  hard  dry  lake  would  be  blue  with 
little  white  waves  running  before  the  wind,  but 
it  is  a  desert-river  and  gets  lost  in  the  sand.  Oc- 
casionally the  water  flows  past  Barstow,  but  it 
hardly  ever  arrives  at  Silver  Lake.  It  came 
once  in  the  memory  of  the  present  inhabitants, 
and  covered  the  dry  lake  to  a  depth  of  three  or 
four  feet.  The  water  gradually  evaporated  and 
in  a  few  weeks  was  gone.  Our  kind  entertain- 
ers showed  us  pictures  which  they  had  taken  of 
the  real  lake  with  boats  on  it.  At  that  time 
both  the  town  and  the  railroad  were  in  the  lake- 
bed  and  had  to  be  hastily  removed  before  the 
oncoming  flood.  An  amusing  incident  hap- 
pened one  day  at  dinner  when  an  artist  from 
San  Francisco,  who  had  stopped  off  on  his  way 
to  paint  in  Nevada,  was  boasting  of  the  marvels 
of  his  city  risen  from  the  great  fire  and  earth- 
quake. 

"Well,"  remarked  our  host  with  the  same  sub- 
terranean chuckle  that  he  lavished  upon  us, 
"Silver  Lake  ain't  so  bad.  We  pulled  her  up 
out  of  the  water  once  already." 

[58] 


The  White  Heart 


We  tried  to  imagine  the  great  expanse  of  liv- 
ing water,  how  it  would  ripple  and  shine  at  its 
edges,  and  the  purple  mountain-tops  would  be 
mirrored  in  it.     Once  the  mirage  had  come  true. 

Every  day  we  watched  the  dream  water  in- 
crease and  diminish  at  the  base  of  the  black 
mountain  with  the  tongue  of  silver  sand  running 
up  it.  The  illusion  was  always  best  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  never  quite  vanished  while  the  sun 
shone.  It  was  so  perfect  that  incredulity  at  last 
compelled  us  to  drive  down  the  eighteen  miles 
of  the  lake-bed  and  explore  it. 

Brauer's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  filled  our  gasoline 
tank.  "You  think  the  lake  ain't  dried  up  yet, 
hey?"    We  kept  our  thoughts  to  ourselves. 

The  first  surprise  was  when  we  reached  the 
end  of  the  lake  and  had  not  reached  the  moun- 
tain. It  looked  just  the  same  except  that  the 
water  had  vanished — hidden  maybe  by  the 
brush  that  covered  the  sand.  Our  host  had  said 
something  about  a  road,  but  we  had  been  so 
sure  that  the  mountain  was  at  the  edge  of  the 
lake  that  we  had  not  listened  carefully  enough 
and  failed  to  find  it,  so  we  left  the  car  and 

[59] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 

walked  through  the  brush.  The  bushes  were 
very  small  and  starved,  growing  several  yards 
apart  on  ground  that  was  hard  and  covered 
with  little  bright  stones  like  packed-down 
gravel.  The  most  flourishing  shrub  was  the 
desert-holly  with  gray,  frosted  leaves  shaped 
exactly  like  the  leaves  of  Christmas  holly,  and 
small  lavender  berries.  The  following  Christ- 
mas Mrs.  Brauer  sent  us  great  wreaths  made  of 
it  and  tied  with  red  ribbons  to  decorate  our 
homes,  a  happy  present  that  brought  the  hot 
brightness  of  the  desert  into  the  gloom  of  an 
eastern  winter.  As  we  walked  among  the  little 
bushes  the  sun  was  very  hot  and  the  mountain 
seemed  to  travel  away  as  fast  as  we  approached 
it.  The  second  surprise  was  when  it  also  van- 
ished entirely  and  three  black  hills  stood  in  its 
place.  They  were  ugly  and  looked  like  heaps 
of  coal.  The  beautiful  peak  which  we  had 
seen  was  some  ten  miles  further  back  on  the 
main  range  which  shut  off  the  Devil's  Play- 
ground. It  had  composed  with  the  three  black 
hills  to  form  the  symmetrical  mass.  There  was 
no  water  either,  and  no  trees. 

[60] 


The  White  Heart 


The  desolation  was  stark  and  sad;  sand  and 
sand  with  hardly  any  brush  reached  to  the  dis- 
tant range.  The  palace  of  dreams  was  gone. 
Disillusioned,  we  climbed  upon  the  nearest  coal- 
pile,  then  suddenly  we  saw  the  miracle  again, 
in  the  north  this  time,  whence  we  had  come. 
The  town  of  Silver  Lake  was  mirrored  in  blue 
water  as  shining  and  as  heavenly  as  the  vision 
which  was  lost.  The  houses  had  weathered  a 
deep  orange  and  burned  in  the  sun.  The  white 
tank  set  upon  stilts  above  the  well  was  dazzling 
to  look  at.  Trees  grew  beside  the  glistening 
dream-water.  It  was  brighter  than  any  town  or 
lake  could  possibly  be;  it  was  magical. 

Thus  the  desert  keeps  beckoning  to  you. 
Either  the  unknown  goal,  or  the  known  starting- 
point,  or  perhaps  both  at  the  same  time,  are 
magical;  only  "here"  is  ever  dreary.  While  we 
sat  on  the  coal-pile  Mojave  related  a  parable: 

"Once  three  brothers  slung  their  canteens  over 
their  shoulders  and  came  to  me.  They  trav- 
eled many  days  toward  my  shining.  They 
were  often  thirsty  and  very  tired.  Presently 
they  came  to  a  spring,  and  when  they  had  rested 

[6i] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


a  dispute  arose.  The  eldest  brother  wished  to 
hasten  on,  but  the  second  said  that  my  shining 
appeared  no  nearer  than  at  the  beginning. 
Nay,  he  did  not  believe  in  it,  he  would  stay 
where  he  was.  The  youngest,  however,  agreed 
to  accompany  his  eldest  brother  and  the  two  set 
out  once  more.  They  crossed  high  mountain- 
ranges  and  deep  valleys,  but  my  shining  was 
always  before  or  after.  In  the  seventh  valley 
the  youngest  brother  also  began  to  doubt  me 
and  refused  to  go  any  further. 

"  'I  will  stay  here,'  he  said,  'these  bushes  have 
little  cool  shadows  beside  them,  and  the  ground 
is  bright  with  little  colored  stones  and  there  are 
flowers.    Stay  also  and  let  us  be  happy.' 

"But  the  eldest  brother  would  not  stay. 

"He  traveled  all  the  years  of  his  life  toward 
my  shining.  The  second  brother  turned  the 
spring  into  a  lake  and  built  himself  a  house  with 
orange-groves  around  it.  The  third  brother 
rested  in  the  cool  shadows  and  rejoiced  in  the 
little  bright  stones." 

We  listened  intently,  but  there  was  no  moral. 


[62] 


The  White  Heart 


In  spite  of  our  host's  "Mein  Gott!"  we  still 
persisted  in  our  idea  of  going  to  Death  Valley. 
It  was  now  only  thirty  miles  away  where  a  shin- 
ing such  as  had  led  the  brothers  on  beckoned  be- 
yond the  Avawatz.  We  learned  that  this  route 
was  impossible  for  a  car,  and  so  dry  that  even 
pack-animals  could  hardly  enter  the  valley  that 
way.  However,  we  could  make  a  detour  of 
nearly  two  hundred  miles,  striking  the  Tonopah 
and  Tidewater  Railroad  again  at  Zabrisky  or 
Death  Valley  Junction,  and  possibly  get  in  that 
way.  During  the  debate  the  sheriff  of  Silver 
Lake,  a  silent  person  decorated  with  pistols, 
volunteered  to  go  with  us  beyond  the  Avawatz 
as  far  as  Saratoga  Springs,  and  as  much  further 
as  we  could  drive  the  car.  He  would  promise 
nothing  as  he  had  not  been  there  for  some  time 
and  was  a  cautious  man,  but  he  thought  we 
might  find  it  worth  while.  Any  one  of  those 
bright  paths  was  worth  while  to  us,  and  we 
eagerly  agreed. 

That  day's  excursion  proved  even  more 
memorable  than  the  drive  from  Joburg.  It  was 
like  a  continuation  of  it,  becoming  ever  wilder 

[63] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


and  stranger.  We  had  already  heard  a  few  of 
Mojave's  songs,  bits  of  her  color-songs,  and  her 
peace-songs,  and  underneath  like  a  rumbling 
bass  her  terror-song — but  we  were  as  yet  only 
acquaintances  on  the  way  to  intimacy.  Ever 
since  leaving  Barstow  we  had  felt  that  we 
were  advancing  through  progressive  suggestion 
toward  some  kind  of  a  climax.  Mojave  was 
leading  us  on  to  something.  Her  heart  still  lay 
beyond. 

A  good  enough  track  led  north  along  the  rail- 
road for  a  few  miles  and  then  swung  around  the 
base  of  the  Avawatz.  We  drove  up  an  inter- 
minable mesa  where  the  alleged  road  grew  al- 
ways rougher  and  less  well-marked,  and  the 
engine  had  an  annoying  tendency  to  boil.  The 
wind  was  from  behind  and  the  heat  of  the  sun 
radiating  up  from  the  white  ground  made  it 
impossible  to  keep  the  engine  cool.  We 
crossed  a  ridge  among  red  and  purple  hills  of 
jumbled  rock  and  began  to  descend  into  an 
oblong,  sandy  basin.  The  road  became  so  un- 
speakable that  the  Sheriff  advised  leaving  it  for 
the  white,  unbroken  sand  of  a  wash.    For  miles 

[64] 


The  White  Heart 


we  made  our  own  track,  winding  around  stones 
and  islands  of  brush.  We  were  in  a  sort  of  out- 
post-valley south  of  Death  Valley  itself,  and 
separated  from  it  by  what  looked  like  a  low 
ridge  of  gravel,  but  we  no  longer  believed  in  the 
reality  of  what  we  thought  we  saw.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  the  ridge  was  succeeded  by  others, 
and  the  only  way  to  get  into  the  main  valley  was 
through  an  opening  with  the  startling  name  of 
Suicide  Pass.  The  valley  we  were  in  is  usually 
considered  to  be  a  part  of  Death  Valley;  on 
many  maps  the  low  basins  stretching  north  from 
the  Avawatz  for  nearly  a  hundred  miles  are  in- 
cluded under  that  name. 

On  both  sides  of  the  outpost-valley  stood 
mountains  of  every  hue.  They  were  maroon, 
violet,  or  black  at  the  base  shading  into  lighter 
reds  and  clear  yellows.  One  yellow  mountain 
had  a  scarlet  spot  on  its  summit  like  a  wound 
that  bled.  The  dark  bases  of  the  mountains  had 
a  texture  like  velvet,  black  and  purple  and  olive- 
green  velvet,  folded  around  their  feet.  As  we 
descended  the  wash  toward  sea-level  the  heat 
and   brightness  of  the  sun   steadily  increased. 

[65] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Each  color  shown  in  its  intensity.  The  bottom 
of  the  valley  was  streaked  with  deposits  of  white 
alkali  that  glistened  blindingly.  The  whole 
world  was  an  ecstasy  of  light. 

Saratoga  Springs  is  a  blue  pool  with  green 
rushes  growing  around  it,  in  the  angle  of  a  dark 
red  mountain.  The  water  bubbled  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  little  pool.  A  marsh  full  of  green 
grass  and  coarse,  white  flowers  led  back  from  the 
pool,  spreading  out  into  a  sheet  of  clear  water 
which  reflected  the  bare  mountains  and  the 
vividly  green  rushes.  Though  this  real  lake  in 
the  desert  was  a  pure  and  lovely  blue,  and  daz- 
zlingly  bright,  it  had  none  of  the  magicalness 
of  the  dream-water  by  the  three  black  hills. 
Somehow  it  just  missed  enchantment.  Hence- 
forth we  would  be  able  to  distinguish  mirage  by 
this  indescribable  quality. 

Saratoga  is  the  last  appearance  of  the  Arma- 
gosa,  or  Bitter  River,  before  it  loses  itself  in 
Death  Valley.  Like  the  Mojave  River  the 
Armagosa  gets  lost.  It  flows  southward  through 
the  desert,  sometimes  roaring  down  a  rocky 
gorge,    sometimes    vanishing    completely    for 

[66] 


The  White  Heart 


miles  in  a  sandy  stretch,  then  reappearing  un- 
accountably to  form  oases  like  the  one  at  Sara- 
toga. Opposite  the  southern  end  of  Death  Val- 
ley it  suddenly  changes  its  mind  and  turns  north 
on  itself  to  enter  the  valley  where  it  makes  a 
great  bog  encrusted  with  white,  alkali  deposits. 
The  Armagosa  flows  through  an  alkali  desert 
carrying  along  minerals  in  solution,  which  give 
its  water  the  taste  that  has  gained  for  it  the 
name  of  Bitter  River.  The  water  of  Saratoga 
Springs  is  flat  and  unpleasant,  though  it  is  fit  to 
drink.  There  are  stories  of  poison-water  in 
Death  Valley,  but  most  of  the  springs  are  merely 
so  full  of  alkali  and  salt  that  they  are  repulsive 
and  do  not  quench  thirst.  At  Silver  Lake  the 
water  is  strongly  alkali.  Everybody  uses  it,  but 
when  a  supply  of  clear  spring-water  can  be 
hauled  in  from  the  mountains  they  all  rejoice. 
The  Sheriflf's  partner,  Charley,  had  a  barrel  full 
which  he  shared  with  us  while  we  were  there. 
The  pool  at  Saratoga  was  full  of  little  darting 
fish,  strange  to  see  in  the  silent,  lifeless  waste. 
The  Sheriff  saved  some  of  his  lunch  for  them 
and  sat  a  long  time  on  the  edge  throwing  in 

[67] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


crumbs.  Once,  he  told  us,  he  had  camped  there 
alone  for  three  months  prospecting  the  hills, 
and  they  had  been  his  friends. 

We  attempted  to  drive  beyond  Saratoga 
Springs.  There  was  supposed  to  be  a  road,  but 
neither  Charlotte  nor  I  could  discern  it.  We 
bumped  along  over  ground  so  cut  by  shallow 
water-channels  that  after  about  seven  miles  we 
dared  not  proceed,  for  a  wrecked  car  in  that 
shining  desolation  would  stay  forever  where  it 
smashed.  We  tried  to  walk  to  the  top  of  the 
gravel-ridge  that  seemed  to  shut  off  the  main 
valley.  It  looked  near  and  innocent  enough,  but 
when  we  tried  to  reach  it  over  the  dazzling- 
ground  under  the  blazing  sun  we  found,  to  our 
surprise,  that  we  could  not.  The  temperature 
was  about  95  degrees,  and  the  air  very  dry.  The 
heat  alone  would  have  been  quite  bearable  had  it 
not  been  augmented  by  the  white  glare.  Sud- 
denly we  realized  that  the  little  ridge  was  inac- 
cessible; all  the  little  yellow  hills  and  ridges, 
and  the  rocky  crests  that  shone  like  burnished 
metal,  were  likewise  inaccessible.  The  realiza- 
tion brought  a  terrifying  sense  of  helplessness. 

[68] 


The  White  Heart 


Here  was  a  country  you  could  not  travel  over: 
though  your  goal  were  in  sight  you  might  never 
reach  it.  The  strength  and  resourcefulness  you 
relied  on  for  emergencies  were  of  no  avail;  an 
empty  canteen,  a  lost  burro,  a  smashed  car,  and 
your  history  might  be  finished.  We  began  to 
understand  why  this  place,  so  gay  with  color, 
so  flooded  with  light,  so  clean,  so  bright,  was 
called  Death  Valley. 

Before  us  was  the  opening  in  the  mountains 
where  the  terrible  valley  itself  lay.  It  was  mag- 
nificent in  the  biggest  sense  of  that  big,  ill-used 
word.  On  the  east  side  rose  the  precipitous 
Panamints  with  a  thin  line  of  snow  on  their 
summits;  opposite  them  the  dark  buttresses  of 
the  Funeral  Mountains  faded  back  into  dim- 
ness. Between  the  ranges  hung  a  blue  haze  of 
the  quality  of  the  sky,  like  the  haze  that  had 
obscured  the  hot  Imperial  Valley.  The  moun- 
tains were  majestic,  immovable,  their  summits 
dwelt  in  the  living  silence.  The  haze  had  the 
magicalness  of  mirage.  We  longed  to  go  on 
while  the  sun  went  down  and  the  silence  turned 
blue,  for  now  we  were  certain  that  under  that 

[69] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


haze,  between  those  imposing  walls,  lay  the  cli- 
max to  which  Mojave  had  been  leading  us,  her 
White  Heart.  She  could  never  be  more  deso- 
late, or  stiller  or  grander.  It  was  the  logical 
journey's  end,  and  what  had  been  at  first  merely 
a  casual  choice  of  destination  became  a  fixed 
goal  to  be  reached  through  any  hazards. 

"If  you  go  there,"  the  old  prospector  had  said, 
"you  will  see  something  you  won't  see  anywhere 
else  on  earth.'* 


[70] 


IV 

The  Outfit 

DEATH  VALLEY  was  the  goal,  but  after 
the  day  at  Saratoga  Springs  one  thing 
was  certain :  no  matter  if  we  could  get 
there  in  an  automobile — and  various  expedients 
were  suggested  to  make  it  possible,  even  safe — 
not  thus  would  we  enter  the  White  Heart,  not 
with  the  throbbing  of  an  engine,  not  dependent 
on  gasoline,  not  limited  in  time,  not  thwarted 
by  roads.  When  we  went  it  would  be  slowly, 
quietly,  camping  by  the  springs,  making  fires  of 
the  brush,  sleeping  under  the  open  sky,  listening, 
watching.  We  had  found  the  outdoors  on  the 
desert  a  wonderful  thing  and  we  wanted  to  live 
with  it  a  while.  If  the  White  Heart  was  the 
climax  of  Mojave  we  felt  that  it  must  be  a 
climax  of  the  feel  of  the  outdoors,  one  of  its 
supreme  expressions.  We  were  going  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  that. 

[71] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Such  a  pilgrimage  meant  an  outfit,  either  a 
wagon  or  a  pack-train,  and  a  guide.  We  needed 
a  man  accustomed  to  living  on  the  desert,  who 
knew  the  valley  thoroughly,  who  could  work  in 
its  heat  and  brightness,  and  who  had  the  courage 
to  take  two  ignorant  enthusiasts  there.  We  had 
lost  the  easy  assurance  with  which  we  had  talked 
at  Joburg  about  going  to  Death  Valley.  No 
wonder  the  inhabitants  of  that  town  had  been 
stunned  when  we  said  that  we  were  on  the  way 
there!  The  unspeakable  road  beyond  Saratoga 
Springs  and  the  little  gravel-ridge  which  we 
could  not  climb  were  sufficient  warning  of  the 
nature  of  the  undertaking.  Mojave  is  not  easily 
to  be  known  as  we  would  know  her.  She  keeps 
herself  to  herself.  The  season  added  a  further 
complication.  Soon  it  would  be  April  and  the 
heat  in  the  valley  would  be  too  great  for  us  to 
endure.  The  pilgrimage  must  start  no  later 
than  January.  That  meant  going  home  and 
coming  back.  As  usual  the  way  to  the  valley 
bristled  with  difficulties. 

We  talked  to  the  Sheriff  about  it.  Julius 
Meyer  was  nearing  fifty,  a  lean,  strong-looking 

[72] 


The  Outfit 

man.  He  had  a  fine  face,  very  somber  in  repose 
as  though  he  had  met  with  some  lasting  disap- 
pointment, but  wonderfully  lit  by  his  occasional 
smile.  His  eyes  had  the  hard  clearness  which 
living  on  the  desert  seems  to  produce.  They 
looked  straight  at  you.  He  said  little,  the  kind 
of  man  who  announces  his  decisions  briefly  and 
carries  them  out.  Mrs.  Brauer  said  of  him: 
"Julius  is  good."  Beyond  her  praise  and  the 
impression  which  he  made  we  knew  nothing  of 
him  except  the  incident  of  the  little  fishes  and 
that  he  had  lived  twenty  years  on  the  desert  and 
had  once  traveled  the  length  of  Death  Valley 
with  burros;  but  we  had  no  hesitation  in  asking 
him  to  be  our  guide.  He  said  it  was  a  mad  idea. 
Nobody  ever  went  to  Death  Valley  unless  they 
expected  to  get  something  out  of  it,  and  then  they 
took  a  Ford  if  they  could  find  one  and  hurried. 

*We  are  just  like  the  rest  of  them,"  we  told 
him.  "We  expect  to  get  something  out  of  it, 
but  we  can't  get  it  in  a  Ford." 

He  finally  agreed  to  go  if  we  would  take  a 
wagon.  He  refused  to  consider  a  pack-train, 
saying  that  we  would  never  be  able  to  pack  bur- 

[73] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


ros,  and  walk  beside  them  and  ride  them  in  the 
heat  of  the  valley.  He  did  not  take  the  discus- 
sion very  seriously,  for  he  evidently  did  not 
expect  us  to  return.  He  thought  the  glamor  of 
Mojave  would  wear  ofif. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  promise,  and  we  were 
certain  that  when  such  a  man  promised  we 
would  see  the  White  Heart.  During  the  follow- 
ing summer  and  autumn  we  kept  hearing 
snatches  of  Mojave's  songs.  A  bit  of  pure  cobalt 
in  the  depths  of  the  woods,  the  flash  of  the  sun 
on  the  tops  of  waves,  the  clear  lovely  blue  of 
ruts  in  a  sandy  road  echoed  her.  Thinking  of 
her  the  eastern  sun  seemed  a  trifle  pale,  the  gay 
brightness  of  summer  a  little  dim.  We  loved 
the  familiar,  dear  New  England  landscape,  but 
we  were  under  the  "terrible  fascination."  Only 
the  sea  was  like  Mojave.  Often  Charlotte  and  I 
would  take  our  blankets  to  a  lonely  part  of  the 
beach  and  spend  the  night  there.  Never  before 
had  we  slept  outdoors,  on  the  ground  under  the 
stars.  Knowing  Mojave  even  a  little  had  made 
us  feel  that  it  might  be  worth  while.  We  found 
that  it  was. 

[74] 


The  Outfit 

"We  have  to  get  used  to  it,"  we  told  our  aston- 
ished friends.  "When  we  go  to  Death  Valley 
with  the  wagon  we  will  have  to  sleep  on  the 
ground." 

We  did  get  used  to  it  and  in  December  wrote 
the  Sheriff.    This  telegram  came: 

"O.  K.   Julius  Meyer." 

When  we  appeared  for  the  second  time  at 
Silver  Lake  in  the  big  automobile  we  were 
greeted  with  even  greater  amazement  than  be- 
fore. We  had  driven  over  from  Barstow  and 
traveling  on  the  desert  for  pleasure  is  so  novel 
an  idea  that  everybody  thought  us  insane.  There 
were  a  few  more  people  in  town  than  we  had 
found  on  our  former  visit,  a  commercial  traveler 
and  three  or  four  miners,  among  them  a  brigand 
known  as  French  Pete,  with  his  head  tied  up  in 
a  red  handkerchief.  They  all  took  a  lively  inter- 
est in  the  proposed  expedition  and  gave  advice. 
They  were  courteous,  but  amusement  contended 
with  wonder  behind  their  friendly  eyes.  They 
tried  to  be  kind  and  searched  their  minds  for 
something  good  to  say  of  the  frightful  valley. 

[75] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Each  one  separately  told  us  what  was  its  real, 
true  attraction. 

"You  see  the  highest  and  the  lowest  spots  in 
the  United  States  at  the  same  time.  Mount 
Whitney,  you  know,  and  the  bottom  of  the 
Valley." 

Since  we  had  never  been  able  to  see  Mount 
Whitney  in  any  of  our  travels  on  the  Mojave, 
we  wondered  how  we  should  be  able  to  see  it 
ifrom  the  deep  pit  of  the  valley  with  the  Pana- 
mints  between,  but  receptivity  was  our  role.  The 
highest  and  lowest  became  a  sort  of  slogan. 
Sooner  or  later  everybody  we  met  at  Silver  Lake 
or  on  our  way  to  the  valley  said  it.  We  waited 
for  them  to  say  it  and  recorded  it  in  our  diaries: 
''Explained  about  H.  and  L." 

The  Sherifif  had  procured  a  wagon  drawn  by  a 
horse  and  a  mule  to  start  from  Beatty,  a  hundred 
miles  further  up  the  Tonopah  and  Tidewater 
Railroad,  and  much  credit  is  due  him  for  the 
gravity  with  which  he  embarked  on  the  folly. 
After  the  O.  K.  telegram  he  never  expressed 
the  slightest  doubt  of  the  feasibleness,  the  sanity, 
and  even  the  usualness  of  the  proceeding.    What 

[76] 


The  Outfit 

we  needed  more  than  anything  else  was  a  real 
reason  for  going,  seeing  the  desert  and  having  an 
adventure  with  the  outdoors  being  no  reasons  at 
all.  He  furnished  even  that.  Charlotte  had 
brought  her  sketching-box;  he  saw  it  among  the 
camping-paraphernalia,  asked  what  it  was,  and 
instantly  spread  the  report  that  we  were  artists 
in  search  of  scenery.  We  had  the  presence  of 
mind  never  to  deny  this  and  by  refraining  from 
exhibitions  were  able  to  be  both  notorious  and 
respectable. 

We  abandoned  the  automobile  and  traveled 
up  to  Beatty  on  the  railroad,  a  seven-hours'-jour- 
ney.  On  the  morning  of  train-day  our  bed-rolls 
and  duffle-bags  on  the  station-platform,  and  our- 
selves getting  into  the  coach  in  knickerbockers 
and  tough,  high  shoes  created  more  excitement 
than  Silver  Lake  had  known  for  some  time. 
Even  Mrs.  Brauer  came  out,  and  Mr.  Brauer 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  beaming  on 
the  crazy  line  of  freight  cars  and  the  heads  stuck 
out  of  the  windows  of  the  coaches,  chuckling 
and  chuckling.  There  was  a  Pullman  from  Los 
Angeles  hitched  to  the  tail  of  the  train,  very 

[771 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


grand,  with  all  the  window- shades  still  pulled 
down  so  early  in  the  morning.  Our  guide,  who 
felt  his  responsibilities,  was  chagrined  because 
he  could  not  get  us  places  in  it;  but  we  were 
more  than  content,  especially  when  the  conduc- 
tor, who  had  a  black  mustache  worthy  of  one  of 
Stevenson's  pirates  and  wore  no  uniform,  assured 
us  that  the  coach  was  not  supposed  to  be  a  smok- 
ing-car so  our  presence  would  interfere  with 
no  one's  happiness.  It  was  full  of  old-timers 
who  were  all  remarkable  for  the  clearness  of 
their  eyes.  They  were  friendly  and  courteous, 
men  past  middle  age,  dressed  in  overalls  and 
flannel  shirts,  who  got  off  at  Zabrisky  and  such 
places,  where  it  is  hard  to  see  that  a  town  exists. 
The  younger  men,  and  the  more  prosperous  look- 
ing in  business-suits  were  mostly  bound  for  Ton- 
opah,  one  of  the  most  active  mining-centers  left 
in  the  country.  During  the  day  many  of  our 
fellow-passengers  talked  to  us,  stopping  as  they 
went  up  and  down  the  aisle  to  sit  on  the  arm  of 
the  opposite  seat.  The  talk  was  of  mining  pros- 
pects, the  booms  of  Goldfield  and  Tonopah,  spec- 
ulation in  mining-shares,  the  slump   after  the 

[78] 


The  Outfit 

war  began,  the  abandoned  towns,  the  river  of 
money  that  has  flowed  into  the  desert  and  been 
drunk  up  by  the  sand.  They  all  agreed  that 
Death  Valley  was  a  desperate  place,  there  had 
never  been  any  mining  there  to  amount  to  any- 
thing. To  encourage  us  they  never  failed  to 
mention  H.  and  L.,  but  they  thought  we  would 
find  more  to  interest  us  in  the  mining  towns  of 
Nevada.  They  made  them  picturesque  with 
pioneering  stories. 

The  railroad  runs  along  the  east  side  of  Death 
Valley,  separated  from  it  by  a  range  of  moun- 
tains. It  follows  the  course  of  the  Armagosa 
River  as  it  flows  south  through  the  desert.  In 
some  places  the  river-bed  was  full  of  water,  in 
others  it  was  a  dry  wash.  Where  the  water  is 
certain  large  mesquites  and  Cottonwood  trees 
grow  and  the  mining  stations,  consisting  of  a 
store  and  one  or  two  houses,  are  nearby.  The 
mountains  along  the  route  are  scarred  with  mines 
and  prospect  holes.  At  Death  Valley  Junction 
a  branch  road  goes  to  the  large  borax-mine  at 
Ryan  on  the  edge  of  the  valley. 

The  country  is  very  desolate.    Soon  after  leav- 

[79] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


ing  Silver  Lake  we  passed  a  group  of  big  sand- 
dunes  with  summits  blown  by  the  wind  into 
beautiful,  sharp  edges.  From  that  viewpoint 
they  seemed  to  guard  the  shining  illusion  that 
always  beckoned  behind  the  Avawatz.  We  had 
seen  them  on  the  way  to  Saratoga,  but  so  far  off 
that  they  had  looked  like  little  mounds.  They 
are  a  miniature  of  the  Devil's  Playground,  that 
utter  desolation  of  shifting  sand  south  of  Silver 
Lake  where  no  roads  are.  Now  we  passed  near 
enough  to  see  their  impressive  size  and  how  the 
wind  makes  their  beautiful  outlines.  When  the 
sand  is  deep  and  fine  the  wind  is  forever  at  work 
upon  it,  blowing  it  into  dunes,  changing  their 
shapes,  piling  them  up  and  tearing  them  down. 
It  gradually  moves  them  along  in  its  prevailing 
direction  by  rolling  their  tops  down  the  lee  side 
and  pushing  up  the  windward  side  for  a  new 
summit.  The  dunes  literally  roll  over.  The 
artist  who  had  boasted  of  his  city  at  Silver  Lake 
called  them  the  "marching  sands."  North  of 
the  marching  sands  we  traveled  through  gray- 
green  mesas  much  broken  by  rugged,  mountain- 
ous masses,  a  forbidding  and  stern  land. 

[80] 


The  Outfit 

Beatty  has  a  magnificent  location  at  the  base 
of  a  big,  red  mountain  in  front  of  a  greater, 
indigo  mass.     It  was  once  a  prosperous  mining 
town,  but  was  at  that  time  partly  deserted  and 
many  of  the  small  wooden  houses  stood  empty. 
Every  effort  had  been  made  to  give  the  appear- 
ance of  streets  by  fencing  ofif  yards  around  the 
houses,  but  it  was  hard  to  get  the  scheme  of 
Beatty.    The  first  impression  was  of  houses  set 
down  promiscuously  on  the  sand.     Some  of  the 
yards  had  gardens  where,  by  means  of  constant 
watering,   fruit-trees   and   roses  were  made   to 
grow.     Beatty  is  at  a  considerable  altitude  so 
that  while  the  noonday  sun  was  hot  the  nights 
were  cold,  sometimes  below  freezing.    The  air 
was  marvelously  clear.    On  the  brightest  days  in 
the  east  flowers  and  shrubs  look  as  though  they 
were  floating  in  a  pure,  colorless  liquid,   and 
the  vistas  are  softly  veiled.     The  air  seems  to 
have  substance.     Among  the  mountains  of  the 
desert  it  is  a  flawless  plate  glass  through  which 
you  look  directly  at  the  face  of  the  world.    Dis- 
tant outlines  stand  out  boldly,  and  every  little 
shining  rock  and  bush  is  set  firmly  down. 

[8i] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Prohibition  had  hit  Beatty  hard.  Most  of 
the  ground-floor  of  the  hotel  consisted  of  a  big 
poolroom  and  bar  over  which  hung  an  air  of 
sadness.  We  had  an  impression  of  moving-day 
in  that  forlorn  hour  vs^hen  everything  is  disman- 
tled and  the  van  has  not  come.  The  landlady 
apologized  for  the  accommodations  which,  how- 
ever, were  excellent. 

"We  used  to  keep  it  up  real  nice  before  mining 
slumped,"  she  said,  "but  now  there  is  prohibi- 
tion, too,  and  we  are  clean  discouraged." 

She  was  an  ingenious  person.  In  her  front 
yard,  one  of  the  prettiest  in  Beatty,  the  walks 
and  flower-beds  were  edged  with  empty  bottles 
driven  in  neck  down.  They  made  a  fine  border, 
durable,  with  a  glassy  glitter  in  the  sun. 

At  Beatty  we  first  encountered  Molly  and 
Bill.  Molly  was  a  white  mule  and  Bill  a  big, 
thin,  red  horse.  They  were  hitched  to  an  ordi- 
nary grocery  wagon.  Our  guide  seemed  pleased 
with  them,  but  we  were  doubtful.  He  had  rented 
them  from  an  Indian  and  said  that  they  were 
absolutely  desert-proof,  they  could  live  on  noth- 

[82] 


The  Outfit 

ing  at  all  and  drink  soda-water  forever.  Bill 
looked  as  though  he  had  always  lived  on  nothing 
at  all,  and  Molly  laid  back  her  long,  white  ears 
in  a  manner  unpleasantly  suggestive.  More- 
over, it  did  not  seem  possible  that  the  frail- 
looking  wagon  could  carry  the  supplies  and  the 
camping  equipment.  We  had  purchased  food 
for  a  month.  It  was  both  heavy  and  bulky; 
bacon,  ham,  potatoes,  flour,  canned  milk  and 
vegetables,  four  pounds  of  butter  and  six  dozen 
eggs.  It  was  the  Sheriff's  selection;  Charlotte 
and  I  had  not  expected  to  travel  de  luxe  like  that. 
Indeed  we  had  brought  some  dried  potatoes  and 
vegetables  and  had  not  dreamed  of  things  like 
milk  or  butter  or  eggs.  He  made  quite  a  stand 
for  the  real  potatoes,  so  they  had  to  go  along. 
In  spite  of  their  bulk  the  canned  milk  and  vege- 
tables are  almost  necessities  on  the  desert,  where 
the  water  is  scarce  and  bad,  for  things  that  have 
to  be  soaked  a  long  time  and  cooked  in  the  alkali 
water  are  hardly  edible.  He  had  a  weakness  for 
green  California  chilies  and  horehound  candy, 
so  they  also  were  included.  Charlotte  insisted  on 

[83] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


dried  fruit,  especially  prunes.  The  grub  alone 
made  a  formidable  pile  on  the  porch  of  the 
general  store.  In  addition  there  was  a  bale  of 
hay  and  a  bag  of  grain.  It  looked  like  very 
little  for  the  dejected  Molly  and  Bill,  but  the 
Sheriff  said  that  we  could  buy  more  at  Furnace 
Creek  Ranch  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  and 
that  we  need  only  feed  them  while  we  were 
actually  in  the  valley,  for  as  soon  as  we  went 
up  a  little  way  on  either  side  they  could  forage. 
We  looked  anxiously  out  over  the  environs  of 
Beatty,  which  is  fairly  high-up.  They  were 
precisely  like  the  environs  of  Silver  Lake,  where 
the  half-wild  burros  can  scarcely  find  a  living. 
We  began  to  worry  in  earnest.  By  the  time  the 
food  for  man  and  beast  was  on  the  wagon  worry 
turned  to  despair.  It  was  full,  and  the  three 
beds,  the  duffle-bags,  the  sketch-box  which  we 
clung  to  as  the  only  proof  of  sanity,  and  the  three 
five-gallon  gasoline  cans  for  carrying  water  were 
still  on  the  ground. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  we  told  the  Sheriff.  "You 
will  have  to  make  some  other  arrangement." 

"Now  look  here,"  he  replied.    "You  stop  wor- 

[84] 


The  Outfit 

rying.  Nobody  in  this  outfit  is  to  worry  except 
me.    That's  my  job.     It's  what  I'm  for." 

His  hard  blue  eyes  looked  into  ours  with 
determination,  then  he  grinned  and  from  that 
moment  became  the  Official  Worrier. 

Slowly  and  patiently  he  built  up  a  monu- 
mental structure  and  cinched  it  with  rope  and 
baling  wire.  Everything  found  a  place.  As  we 
expected  to  make  a  spring  that  night  it  was  not 
necessary  to  fill  the  gasoline  cans.  They  were 
hung  on  the  back  of  the  load  with  more  baling- 
wire.  Remembering  the  day  when  it  had  been 
95  degrees  at  Saratoga  Springs  we  tried  to  leave 
our  heavy  driving-coats  behind,  but  were  forci- 
bly forbidden  to  do  so.  They  were  added  to  the 
topmost  peak. 

For  two  days  all  Beatty,  from  the  leading  citi- 
zen who  sold  us  our  supplies  to  the  Mexican  cook 
in  the  railroad  restaurant  who  told  us  that  it 
was  so  hot  in  Death  Valley  the  lizards  had  to 
turn  over  on  their  backs  and  wave  their  feet  in 
the  air  to  cool  them,  had  been  much  cheered  by 
our  presence.  Nobody  expected  us  to  be  gone 
very  long  and  they  watched  the  loading  up  of 

[8s] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


the  month's  supplies  with  amused  interest.  When 
we  were  ready  we  had  to  pose  beside  the  wagon 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  to  have  our  picture 
taken.  Then  somebody  cried  "Good  luck!"  and 
at  last  we  started. 

As  soon  as  a  turn  in  the  road  hid  Beatty  the 
silence  closed  around  us.  The  crisp,  clear  air 
made  our  blood  tingle.  We  walked  the  first 
few  miles  while  the  Worrier  drove.  The  sun, 
the  wind,  and  the  scarred  old  mountains  became 
the  only  important  things  in  the  world.  We  were 
committed  to  sunrise  and  sunset,  rocks  and  brush 
were  to  be  our  companions,  lonely  springs  were 
to  keep  us  alive,  the  roots  of  the  greasewood 
were  to  warm  us,  all  our  possessions  were  con- 
tained in  one  frail  wagon.  In  half  an  hour  the 
desert  claimed  us.  The  sun  that  loves  the  desert 
clothed  it  in  colored  garments. 


[86] 


/ 


Entering  Death  Valley 

THE  way  to  Death  Valley  from  Beatty  is 
across  a  shallower  valley  and  through 
Daylight  Pass  at  an  elevation  of  4,317 
feet.  First  the  road  winds  down  around  small, 
rough  hills,  at  whose  base  the  deserted  town  of 
Ryolite  is  situated,  Ryolite  is  what  remains  of 
a  mining  boom.  It  is  pushed  into  a  cove  of  a 
rose-colored  mountain — but  desert  mountains 
change  their  hues  so  often  that  it  may  not  always 
be  rose.  Ryolite  is  a  typical  American  ruin. 
Its  boom  was  very  brief.  The  town  sprang  up 
over-night.  Money  was  poured  in.  Water  was 
brought  for  miles  in  a  pipe-line,  a  railroad  from 
Beatty  begun,  and  permanent  buildings  erected 
— it  had  the  pride  of  a  "thirty  thousand  dollar 
hotel,"  and  a  bank  to  match.  Immense  energy 
and  enthusiasm  of  youth,  middle-aged  greed,  too, 
with  its  eye  on  the  immediate  main  chance,  went 

[87] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


into  its  making.  No  doubt  some  people  profited 
by  the  building  of  Ryolite.  It  was  a  tumult  of 
"American  initiative" — then  it  did  not  pay.  It 
is  easy  to  picture  the  promoters,  their  important 
hurry,  their  ''up-to-date  methods,"  their  big 
talk.  It  is  easy  to  picture  the  investors  too. 
Nearly  everybody  who  has  money  to  invest  buys 
stock  in  a  gold  mine  once.  Great  hopes  con- 
verged on  the  desert  here  from  many  a  board- 
sidewalked  town  and  prairie-farm;  futures  were 
built  on  it.  There  is  a  throb  in  the  throat  for 
Ryolite,  fading  into  the  mountain,  its  corru- 
gated-iron roofs  rusting  red  like  the  hills.  The 
desert  is  licking  the  wound  with  her  sandy 
tongue  until  not  even  a  scar  will  remain.  Sooner 
or  later  she  heals  all  the  little  scratches  men 
make  on  her  surface. 

The  dead  town  faced  a  wide  valley  stretching 
like  a  green  meadow  to  the  opposite  mountains. 
The  thick  sagebrush  melted  together  into  a 
smooth  sward  over  which  cloud-shadows  floated. 
The  sun  evoked  lovely,  changing  color-tones 
from  it,  like  a  musician  playing  upon  his  instru- 
ment, making  harmonies  of  violet  and  brown  and 

[88] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


sage-green  flow  beneath  a  melody  of  pure  blue. 
A  perfectly  straight  road  cut  a  white  line 
through  the  meadow.  The  distance  was  ten 
miles,  but  no  one  unaccustomed  to  the  clear  air 
of  the  desert  would  guess  it  to  be  more  than 
three.  The  road  appeared  level  with  a  slight 
rise  under  the  western  mountains  which  had 
strong,  dark  outlines  on  the  sky.  They  looked 
purple  and  their  lower  masses  kept  emerging 
from  the  main  range  and  fading  again  as  the 
shadows  circled. 

It  took  Molly  and  Bill  a  long  time  to  travel 
the  straight,  white  line.  By  turn  we  drove  and 
walked,  as  the  three  of  us  could  not  ride  in 
the  wagon  at  once.  Already  the  superiority  of 
this  mode  of  travel  over  Fords  was  being  dem- 
onstrated. We  felt  the  simple  bigness  of  the 
desert,  and  were  intimate  with  the  indigo  shadow 
under  each  little  bush,  and  the  bright-colored 
stones;  we  had  time  to  make  digressions  to  some 
new  cactus  or  strange-looking  rock  while  Molly 
and  Bill  plodded  on.  For  hours  we  crossed  the 
valley,  hardly  seeming  to  progress.  The  same 
landscape  was  always  before  us,  yet  we  were  in 

[89] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


the  midst  of  a  changing  pageant.  Soon  Ryolite 
was  lost  in  a  mass  of  pale  rose  and  blue  that 
seemed  like  a  gate  to  another  world.  The 
knowledge  that  the  mountains  were  made  of  dull- 
red,  crumbling  rock,  and  that  only  Beatty  lay 
behind  them  could  not  destroy  the  illusion.  It 
grew  fairer  as  we  left  it.  The  dark  mountains 
in  front  became  formidable  silhouettes  as  the 
afternoon  sun  inclined  toward  them.  We  could 
never  quite  see  the  canyon  by  which  we  were 
to  reach  the  pass;  several  times  we  thought  we 
saw  it,  only  to  lose  it  again  in  the  subtleties  of 
shifting  shadows. 

Soon  after  crossing  the  middle  of  the  valley 
the  road  began  a  long,  brutal  ascent.  Mile  after 
mile  it  steadily  climbed  until  the  sweat  made 
furrows  in  the  shaggy  coats  of  Molly  and  Bill; 
but  to  us,  walking  ahead  of  the  wagon,  the  valley 
looked  level  as  before,  and  only  our  greater  exer- 
tion convinced  us  of  the  rise.  Here  was  one  of 
the  characteristic  mesas  of  the  Mojave;  nothing 
is  quite  fiat  there  except  the  narrow  bottoms 
of  the  valleys.  Suddenly  the  road  reached  the 
outposts   of   the   mountain   and   became   much 

[90] 


— -An ^._.. 


Entering  Death  Valley 


steeper  through  the  sandy  wash  of  a  canyon.  The 
walls  on  either  side  gradually  grew  higher  and 
the  sand  deeper.  The  ungainly  load  proved 
almost  too  much  for  the  desert-proof  steeds.  At 
times  we  all  three  had  to  push,  and  we  often 
had  to  stop  to  rest.  Night  came  while  we  were 
still  toiling  upward.  It  was  cold,  and  a  bit- 
ter wind  blew  between  the  walls.  During  one 
of  the  halts  the  Worrier  gathered  up  some  bits 
of  wood  by  the  roadside,  the  remains  of  a 
ruined  shack,  and  thrust  them  under  the  cinch- 
ropes. 

"We'll  need  them,"  he  said,  buttoning  his 
inadequate  coat  to  the  chin.     "We're  in  luck." 

"You'll  find  we're  always  in  luck,"  we  told 
him  through  chattering  teeth. 

At  last  Molly  and  Bill  succeeded  in  reaching 
the  top  of  the  pass.  The  spring  was  still  half  a 
mile  away  in  the  side  of  a  mountain.  We  did 
not  attempt  to  take  the  wagon  there,  but  the 
Worrier  took  the  tired  animals  and  brought 
back  the  water  while  Charlotte  and  I  found  a 
place  fairly  sheltered  from  the  wind  in  the  bot- 
tom of  a  wash,  lugged  down  the  bits  of  firewood 

[91] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


and  the  "kitchen,"  and  began  to  cook  our  first 
meal  on  the  desert.  Soon  we  heard  the  Worrier 
shouting  unintelligible  things.  Much  alarmed 
we  scrambled  hastily  up  out  of  the  wash  to  find 
him  returning,  followed  by  a  troop  of  wild  bur- 
ros. They  were  not  in  the  least  discouraged  by 
his  violent  remarks,  but  came  all  the  way  and 
stood  in  a  half-circle  around  the  wagon,  twitch- 
ing their  furry  ears.  He  was  noisily  vehement. 
He  said  that  they  would  steal  and  eat  anything 
from  our  blankets  to  his  precious  chilies  sealed 
up  in  tin  cans;  that  they  had  no  conscience,  they 
were  the  pirates  of  the  desert.  During  dinner  he 
kept  making  excursions  to  the  top  of  the  wash  to 
throw  stones  at  them.  He  guarded  the  wagon  all 
night  by  sleeping  under  it,  a  practice  which  he 
continued  throughout  the  trip,  greatly  tranquil- 
izing  our  minds.  Burros  and  coyotes  were  the 
only  marauders,  and  we  knew  that  they  would 
have  a  hard  time  of  it.  Charlotte  and  I  dragged 
our  bed-rolls  a  little  way  down  the  wash.  It 
was  a  wild  night.  The  stars  had  an  icy  glitter 
and  the  wind  made  dismal  noises  among  the 
fearsome-looking  mountain-tops;  before  morn- 

[92] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


ing  it  snowed  a  little,  but  we  were  too  tired  to 
care. 

The  rising  sun  awoke  us.  It  leapt  up  over  the 
mountains;  soon  every  trace  of  the  light  snow 
was  gone,  the  ground  dry,  and  the  air  warm. 
From  Daylight  Springs  a  fairly  good  track  led 
down  eight  miles  to  the  northern  rim  of  Death 
Valley.  Near  the  end  of  the  descending  canyon 
Corkscrew  Mountain  appeared,  a  symmetrical 
mass,  striking  both  on  account  of  its  red  color 
like  crumbling  bricks  and  for  the  perpendicular 
clif¥  which  spirals  around  it  like  a  corkscrew. 
Through  the  field-glass  the  cliff  was  a  dark  violet 
and  might  be  a  hundred  or  more  feet  high. 
Corkscrew  Mountain  stands  out  boldly  from  its 
fellows,  nor  while  we  were  in  the  valley  did  we 
ever  lose  sight  of  its  sun-bright  bulk.  It  became 
our  landmark  in  the  north. 

Opposite  Corkscrew  Mountain  the  road 
turned  abruptly  around  a  point  of  rock.  Char- 
lotte and  I  were  walking  ahead  of  the  wagon, 
we  went  gayly  to  the  end  of  the  promontory  and 
were  brought  to  a  sudden  stop  by  what  we  saw. 
There,  without  any  warning  of  its  nearness,  like 

[93] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


an  unexpected  crash  of  orchestral  music,  lay  the 
terrible  valley,  the  beautiful,  the  overwhelming 
valley. 

The  Official  Worrier  stopped  the  wagon. 
Though  he  thought  us  insane,  though  he  declared 
he  could  see  none  of  the  colors  and  enchantments 
we  had  been  pointing  out  to  him,  he  was  moved. 
From  the  look  that  came  into  his  eyes  we  knew 
that,  whether  he  admitted  it  or  not,  like  Shady 
Myrick  he  was  under  the  terrible  fascination  of 
Mojave.  That,  after  all,  was  why  he  had  been 
willing  to  come  with  us  to  the  White  Heart. 
"Well,"  he  said  brusquely,  "that's  her!" 
We  all  stood  silent  then.  We  were  about  three 
thousand  feet  above  the  bottom  of  the  valley 
looking  down  from  the  north  over  its  whole 
length,  an  immense  oblong,  glistening  with  white, 
alkali  deposits,  deep  between  high  mountain 
walls.  We  knew  that  men  had  died  down  there 
in  the  shimmering  heat  of  that  white  floor, 
we  knew  that  the  valley  was  sterile  and  dead, 
and  yet  we  saw  it  covered  with  a  mantle  of  such 
strange  beauty  that  we  felt  it  was  the  noblest 
thing  we  had  ever  imagined.    Only  a  poet  could 

[94] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


hope  to  express  the  emotion  of  beauty  stronger 
than  fear  and  death  which  held  us  silent  moment 
after  moment  by  the  point  of  rock.  Perhaps 
some  day  a  supreme  singer  will  come  around 
that  point  and  adequately  interpret  that  thrill- 
ing repose,  that  patience,  that  terror  and  beauty 
as  part  of  the  impassive,  splendid  life  that  always 
compasses  our  turbulent  littleness  around.  Be- 
fore terror  and  beauty  like  that,  something  inside 
you,  your  own  very  self,  stands  still;  for  a  while 
you  rest  in  the  companionship  of  greatness. 

The  natural  features  which  combined  to  pro- 
duce this  tremendous  effect  came  slowly  to  our 
understanding.  They  were  so  unlike  anything 
in  our  experience,  even  of  the  wonders  of  the 
outdoors,  that  they  bewildered  us.  The  strange 
can  only  be  made  comprehensible  by  comparison 
to  the  familiar,  and  perhaps  the  best  comparison 
is  to  a  frozen  mountain-lake.  The  smooth,  white 
bottom  of  the  valley  looks  more  like  a  frozen 
lake  than  like  anything  else,  and  yet  it  looks  so 
little  like  a  lake  that  the  simile  does  not  come 
easily  to  the  mind.  Death  Valley  is  level  like  a 
lake,  it  is  bare  like  a  lake,  cloud-shadows  drift 

[95] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


over  it  as  over  a  lake,  the  precipitous  mountains 
seem  to  jut  into  it  as  mountains  jut  into  a  lake, 
but  there  the  comparison  ends  and  its  own  unfa- 
miliar beauties  begin. 

Evanescent  streaks  and  patches  of  color  float 
over  the  shining  floor  between  the  changing  hills. 
It  reflects  them.  Sometimes  a  path  made  of 
rose  tourmalines  crosses  it,  or  a  blue  patch  lies 
near  one  edge  as  though  a  piece  of  the  sky  had 
fallen  down.  Lines  of  pure  cobalt,  pools  of 
smoky  blue,  or  pale  yellow,  or  pink  lavender 
are  there,  all  quiveringly  alive.  At  times  the 
white  crust  shines  like  polished  silver,  at  others 
it  turns  sullenly  opaque.  Now  a  blue  river 
flows  down  the  center — now  it  moves  over  under 
the  western  wall — now  it  gathers  itself  into  a 
pond  around  which  green  rushes  grow. 

High  above  the  middle  of  the  valley  tower 
the  Panamint  Mountains.  That  winter  their 
summits  were  covered  with  snow  as  white  as  the 
white  floor,  and  as  shining.  Without  apparent 
break  into  foothills  they  rise  nearly  12,000  feet. 
Seldom,  even  in  the  highest  ranges,  can  you  see 
so  great  a  sheer  rise,  for  most  mountains  are 

[96] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


approached  from  a  considerable  elevation.  In 
Death  Valley  the  eye  begins  its  upward  journey 
below  sea-level.  Down  there  the  white  floor 
shimmered  and  seemed  to  move  while  above  it 
the  two  peaks  of  Telescope  and  Mount  Baldy, 
joined  by  a  long  curving  ridge  of  snow,  were  a 
remote,  still  whiteness. 

The  eastern  wall  of  the  valley  is  not  so  high, 
but  is  hardly  less  impressive.  The  Funeral 
Mountains  are  steel-blue  with  layers  of  white 
rock  near  their  summits.  Both  the  moun- 
tains and  the  valley  were  named  because  of 
tragedies  down  on  that  white  floor  during  pio- 
neering and  prospecting  days.  It  is  impossible 
to  get  the  details  of  the  stories  from  the  old- 
timers,  each  has  a  different  version  and  no  one 
is  very  clear  even  about  his  own.  One  story  is 
of  a  party  of  emigrants,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, on  the  way  to  the  gold-fields  with  all  their 
household  goods,  who  entered  the  valley  by  mis- 
take and  could  not  find  a  way  out;  another  is  of 
a  party  who  were  attacked  by  Indians  and  fought 
in  a  circle  they  made  of  their  wagons  until  the 
last  man  was  killed.    The  remains  of  the  wagons 

[97] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


are  said  to  be  buried  in  the  sand  near  a  place 
called  Stovepipe  Wells.  We  never  could  learn 
the  exact  location,  though  on  a  later  trip  we  met 
a  man  who  said  that  he  had  once  actually  found 
them,  and  that  he  had  seen  Indians  around  there 
wearing  jewelry  and  using  utensils  which  they 
could  only  have  obtained  from  the  white  man 
sometime  in  the  fifties.  There  are  also  stories 
of  individual  prospectors  who  perished  on  the 
burning  sands.  It  does  not  matter  which  par- 
ticular tragedy  fastened  such  names  on  this 
region  of  celestial  day,  they  commemorate  all 
whose  last  sight  of  the  earth  was  that  lonely 
splendor. 

The  Funeral  Range  is  separated  by  a  deep 
canyon  from  the  Black  Mountains  which  con- 
tinue the  eastern  wall  of  the  valley.  This  wall 
is  from  five  to  six  thousand  feet  high,  jutting 
into  the  basin  in  great  promontories  as  moun- 
tains jut  into  a  rock-ringed  lake.  The  range 
across  the  southern  end  is  not  so  high  and  was 
half  hidden  by  an  opalescent  haze.  All  the  time 
we  were  in  the  valley  that  haze  persisted.  Only 
rarely  and  for  short  periods  could  we  see  any 

[98] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


detail  in  the  depths  of  the  hot  basin,  though  the 
foreground  sparkled  in  the  stark,  clear  air.  The 
Imperial  Valley  and  Death  Valley  are  always 
hung  with  misty  curtains. 

A  long,  long  slope  leads  from  the  rock  prom- 
ontory from  which  we  first  saw  the  valley  down 
to  that  shimmering  pit.  It  is  very  rocky,  cut 
by  washes  and  sparsely  covered  with  sagebrush 
and  greasewood.  Occasional  little  yellow  or 
blue  hills  rise  like  islands  from  blue-green 
waves.  The  ground  is  covered  with  little  stones 
of  every  conceivable  color,  which  flash  back  the 
sunlight  from  their  polished  surfaces.  Unfa- 
miliar green  and  purple  stones  lie  around,  and 
bright  red  stones,  and  a  stone  of  a  strange  orange- 
color  like  flame.  A  mass  of  this  is  what  we  must 
have  seen  at  Saratoga  Springs  on  the  mountain 
that  bled.  The  impulse  to  pick  up  specimens 
was  irresistible.  This  proved  to  be  the  curse  of 
walking  over  the  bright  mosaics.  Each  little 
stone  was  of  a  color  or  texture  more  alluring 
than  the  last  until  our  pockets  became  unbear- 
ably heavy.  Every  resting-time  was  spent  in 
trying  to  decide  which  ones  to  throw  away,  but 

[99] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


as  we  could  not  possibly  throw  one  away  on  the 
same  day  that  we  picked  it  up,  this  was  a  fruit- 
less occupation. 

About  noon  we  lunched  in  the  shade  of  one  of 
the  little  hill-islands.  During  the  descent  the 
heat  had  steadily  increased  and  the  sun  shone 
with  white,  blinding  intensity.  The  Official 
Worrier  grew  expansive  and  happy.  He  de- 
scribed himself  as  a  "desert  rat,"  and  said  that 
the  hot  brilliance  suited  him  entirely.  He  called 
it  a  pleasant,  warm  day.  Charlotte  and  I  were 
continually  looking  at  the  little  blue  spots  of 
shade  behind  a  bush  or  projecting  rock  to  rest 
our  eyes.  We  could  no  longer  look  away  over 
the  valley,  objects  merged  and  vanished  there. 
One  of  my  recurring  dreams  since  childhood  is 
of  trying  to  walk  or  run  in  a  light  so  dazzling 
that  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  open  for  more 
than  a  few  seconds  at  a  time.  That  day  my 
dream  strikingly  came  true.  Everywhere  bright 
heat-waves  ran  over  the  ground.  The  surface 
of  stones  and  the  tips  of  leaves  glittered  daz- 
zlingly.  It  was  probably  no  hotter  than  it  had 
been  at  Saratoga,  but  the  reflection  of  light  from 

[lOO] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


the  immense  white  bottom  of  the  valley  was  an 
almost  unbearable  brightness. 

Our  destination  was  an  abandoned  gold-mine 
on  the  side  of  the  Funeral  Range.  From  the 
lunch-place  the  Keane  Wonder  Mine  looked  on 
a  level  with  us  and  quite  near,  but  we  traveled 
two  hours  and  made  a  stiflf  climb  to  reach  it. 
This  was  the  hardest  bit  of  marching  that  we 
did,  for  we  were  too  ignorant  of  the  efifects  of 
such  a  combination  of  heat  and  blinding  light  to 
know  how  to  conduct  ourselves.  We  thought 
we  were  sick  or  overtired,  and  being  much  too 
proud  to  let  the  Worrier  suspect  such  a  thing, 
pressed  on  without  stopping  often  enough  to 
rest.  We  had  not  yet  learned  that  the  wagon 
was  always  accompanied  by  a  blessed  bit  of 
shade  that  we  could  sit  down  in  any  time.  Later 
we  appreciated  fully  this  happy  attribute  of 
wagons.  More  than  once  we  were  grateful  to 
the  Worrier  for  refusing  to  come  with  a  pack- 
train. 

The  mine  was  a  large  plant  which  had  paid 
well.  A  mess  of  buildings,  some  half-blown- 
down,  pieces  of  machinery  and  the  big  red  mill 

[lOl] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


huddled  at  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  where  the 
mountain  rises  steeply  from  the  mesa.  The  mine 
itself  was  higher  up  the  canyon  down  which  the 
ore  was  swung  in  huge  buckets  that  ran  on  iron 
cables.  Water  had  been  piped  from  a  spring  a 
mile  away,  but  the  pipe  was  broken.  The 
ground  was  far  too  rough  to  allow  us  to  take  the 
wagon  to  the  spring,  so  once  more  the  Worrier 
led  ofif  Molly  and  Bill  and  brought  back  water 
in  a  pail.  Earlier  in  the  day  we  had  lamented 
the  necessity  of  camping  among  wreckage,  but 
when  we  reached  the  first  building,  which  once 
had  been  a  barn,  its  oblong,  indigo  shadow  was 
Heaven.  We  lay  prone  on  the  ground  behind  it 
until  the  sun  went  down,  not  attempting  to  un- 
load the  wagon  or  do  any  useful  thing.  The 
Worrier  found  us  thus  on  his  return  and  gravely 
opined  that  we  had  better  stay  a  while  at  Keane 
Wonder  and  try  to  get  acclimated. 

During  the  three  days  that  we  camped  behind 
the  barn  we  were  living  about  a  thousand  feet 
above  the  bottom  of  that  amazing  valley,  look- 
ing down  into  it  and  up  at  the  still,  white  peaks 
of  the  Panamints  above  it.     Opposite   Keane 

[102] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


Wonder  what  looked  like  a  low,  sandy  ridge 
separates  the  main  sink  of  Death  Valley  from 
a  similar  though  smaller  and  less  striking  basin 
called  the  Mesquite  Valley.  The  high  Pana- 
mints  end  in  a  stern  red  mass  near  the  sand-ridge, 
beyond  which  a  long  slope  like  the  one  we  had 
come  down  leads  to  more  distant  mountains 
which,  however,  are  a  continuation  of  the  range. 
Emigrant  Pass  through  the  mountains  over  to 
Ballarat  starts  from  the  slope  and  winds  around 
behind  the  stern,  red  mass.  That  may  well  have 
been  the  way  out  which  the  party  of  emigrants 
who  perished  sought  and  did  not  find.  Most 
of  the  time  the  steadily  pressing  wind  of  the 
desert  blew  through  the  great,  bright  space. 
Often  we  saw  It  pick  up  the  sand  far  down  at  the 
edge  of  the  valley  and  whirl  it  along  in  tall 
wraiths  that  looked  like  ghosts  walking  over  the 
white  floor. 

On  the  second  evening  a  bell  sounded  in  the 
dusk.  When  you  travel  with  burros  on  the  des- 
ert it  is  the  custom  to  put  a  bell  on  one  of  them 
at  night  so  you  can  find  them  in  the  morning,  and 
often  the  bell  is  left  on  during  the  day's  journey. 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


That  sound  meant  that  someone  was  coming  to 
our  camp-fire.  Soon  a  frail  old  man  with  two 
loaded  burros  and  a  little  dog  appeared.  It  was 
"Old  Johnnie,"  an  habitue  of  Death  Valley, 
coming  home.  He  had  an  unworked  gold-mine 
near  Keane  Wonder  and  he  spent  his  life  looking 
after  his  property.  Apparently  he  was  also  the 
official  caretaker  of  Keane  Wonder  itself.  He 
performed  his  duties  by  looking  over  our  camp 
and  guarding  every  bit  of  wire  and  every  old 
rusty  nail  as  though  they  were  gold  itself.  He 
hovered  around  us,  especially  at  departure,  so 
we  only  succeeded  in  stealing  one  iron  bar  for 
our  fireplace,  and  we  needed  two.  We  cast  long- 
ing eyes  at  a  certain  chipped,  granite  kettle,  but 
finally  had  to  borrow  that,  promising  solemnly 
to  return  it  at  Beatty  on  our  way  back.  Perhaps 
he  was  unduly  suspicious  because  the  Worrier 
had  taken  a  bit  of  some  very  ancient  and  hope- 
less-looking hay,  which  we  found  in  the  barn, 
to  cheer  up  Molly  and  Bill. 

"How  could  I  know  he  lived  here?"  he  apol- 
ogized to  us.  "Anyways,  there  wasn't  but  two 
mouthfuls." 

[104] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


But  "Old  Johnnie"  was  hospitable,  as  all  old- 
timers  are.  He  urged  Charlotte  and  me  to  move 
into  the  superintendent's  house.  It  had  been  a 
good  house  once,  but  in  its  present  condition  we 
preferred  the  open  sand,  nor  could  we  bear  even 
for  a  night  to  have  a  roof  between  us  and  the 
blue  deeps  of  that  star-filled  sky.  He  was  a 
garrulous  talker  and  very  friendly.  He  claimed 
that  his  mine  was  richer  than  Keane  Wonder 
ever  dreamed  of  being.  Once  some  one  had  of- 
fered him  $300,000,  but  his  partner  would  not 
look  at  it.  His  tone  implied  that  it  was  a  paltry 
sum  anyway.  He  was  an  inventor,  too,  and  had 
sold  a  patent  for  an  automobile-part  which  he 
described  in  great  detail.  We  asked  him  if  he 
still  hoped  to  sell  the  mine.  He  seemed  not  to 
know  what  he  intended  to  do.  Plainly  he  was 
another  victim  of  the  "terrible  fascination."  He 
related  how  he  had  lately  been  to  Tonopah  and 
got  sick  and  almost  died  from  lack  of  air  in  the 
clutter  of  things.  The  Worrier  said  that  he 
had  money  put  away  somewhere,  but  money  or 
no  money,  whether  he  ever  sold  the  mine  or  not, 

[■OS] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


he  would  hang  around  Death  Valley  the  rest 
of  his  life. 

"Old  Johnnie"  rose  to  fine  heights  as  a  story- 
teller when  we  invited  him  to  dinner  next  day. 
We  had  brought  some  fresh  meat  which  had  to 
be  used  up  early  on  the  trip,  and  the  Worrier 
achieved  a  magnificent  meal.  Usually  I  was 
the  cook,  but  that  dinner  was  far  beyond  me.  He 
invaded  the  ruined  boarding-house,  wrestled  suc- 
cessfully with  the  rusty  stove,  and  produced  a 
roast  surrounded  by  potatoes  and  onions  to  be 
long  remembered.  We  ate  it  at  the  board  table 
in  the  dining-room.  "Old  Johnnie"  changed 
his  coat  for  the  festivity;  he  beamed  upon  us 
and  talked.  He  had  the  good  story-teller's  gift 
of  suggestion  and  in  the  midst  of  that  blazing 
emptiness  steeped  in  a  silence  broken  only  by  the 
wind  clanging  rusted  cables  and  rattling  the 
loosened  iron  roof,  he  peopled  the  dining-room 
again.  We  saw  the  faces  of  the  men  crowding 
in  for  their  supper  and  heard  their  voices.  Once 
more  the  camp-cook  in  white  apron  and  cap,  for 
"Old  Johnnie"  described  it  as  a  fine  camp  "run 
right,"  leaned  over  the  table  to  pour  soup  into 

[1 06] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


granite  bowls.  Keane  Wonder  came  to  life 
while  the  obliterating  desolation  crept  in  at  the 
door. 

He  told  stories  of  other  mining  camps  and  of 
the  struggle  of  individual  prospectors  with  the 
valley.  You  outwit  its  wickedness  or  you  are 
outwitted  by  it.  It  was  alive,  a  sort  of  fascinat- 
ing enemy.  His  words  took  us  with  him  and  his 
burros  down  its  white  length.  The  enemy  had 
uncanny  powers.  She  played  strange  tricks  on 
you.  If  she  could  not  get  you  one  way  she  tried 
another. 

"You  find  fellers  dead  down  there,"  he  said. 
"And  they  don't  die  of  thirst,  either.  Some- 
times there's  water  in  the  canteens.  They  just 
go  crazy.    She  gets  'em." 

He  leaned  closer  across  the  table  and  his  voice 
became  lower. 

"And  you  hear  'em  in  the  night,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Hear  who?" 

"Them.    I  call  it  the  Lonesome  Bell." 

"What  is  the  Lonesome  Bell?"  We  found 
ourselves  whispering  too. 

[107] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


*'You  hear  it.  It's  a  bell.  It  rings  regular, 
far  off.  Sometimes  you  hear  it  all  night.  It 
sounds  like  the  bell  on  a  burro.  But  it  ain't 
nothing.  Once  I  had  a  young  feller  for  a  part- 
ner, and  when  he  heard  it  he  got  up  and  made 
coffee  for  the  outfit  that  was  coming.  He 
wouldn't  believe  me  when  I  told  him  it  wasn't 
nothing  but  the  Lonesome  Bell.  He  waited  and 
waited  and  nobody  came.  And  the  next  morn- 
ing he  packed  up  and  beat  it." 

Old  Johnnie's  eyes  glittered  with  unnatural 
brightness.  He  was  telling  his  own  secret.  Very 
vividly  he  made  us  see  a  man  alone  in  the  blue 
night,  dim  sand  spreading  away,  dark-blue 
mountains  on  blueness.  Not  a  sound,  not  even 
the  breath  of  the  night  stirring  the  sagebrush. 
Through  white,  empty  days  and  blue,  empty 
nights  he  is  always  alone.  He  listens  to  his  own 
heart  beating.  Then,  far  off,  the  faint  sound  of 
a  bell.  Then  again.  He  listens  intently  because 
it  is  the  only  sound  for  such  a  long  time.  It  comes 
again.  It  grows  louder.  He  strains  to  hear. 
A  bell  belongs  on  a  burro — he  hears  the  tramp 
of  burros'  feet. 

[.08] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


With  awe  we  looked  at  those  bright,  intent 
eyes  and  that  thin  body  bent  tensely  forward. 
Some  night  the  Lonesome  Bell  will  be  true,  but 
"Old  Johnnie"  will  not  hear  it.  A  belated  trav- 
eler with  his  pack-train  will  find  a  dead  camp- 
fire  and  an  old  man  asleep  forever  beside  it. 
"Old  Johnnie"  has  outwitted  the  valley  so  long 
that  he  thinks  he  can  always  do  it,  but  she  will 
get  him  in  the  end. 

After  dinner  "Old  Johnnie"  unlocked  the  mill 
and  showed  us  the  costly  machinery  inside,  ex- 
plaining in  careful  detail  the  processes  of  mill- 
ing gold.  The  canyon  behind  Keane  Wonder 
is  narrow  and  precipitous  as  though  it  had  been 
gouged  out  by  a  giant's  trowel.  High  up  on  the 
mountain-side  the  dumps  of  iridescent  rock 
around  the  mine-pits  shimmered.  We  sat  with 
him  on  a  beam  of  the  ruined  mill  while  he 
pointed  things  out  in  the  valley.  He  showed 
us  where  Furnace  Creek  Ranch  lies  on  the  sand 
by  the  opening  of  the  canyon  between  the 
Funeral  Range  and  the  Black  Mountains,  but  we 
could  not  see  it  because  of  the  heat-shimmer  and 
the  misty  veil.    He  said  that  the  stern,  red  mass 

[109] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


opposite  was  called  Tucki  Mountain,  an  Indian 
word  for  sheep,  because  the  Panamint  Indians 
used  to  hunt  wild  mountain-sheep  in  its  fast- 
nesses. The  smooth,  bare  slope  beyond  the 
Mesquite  Valley,  he  said,  was  really  very  rough, 
cut  by  deep  water-channels  and  covered  with 
brush;  and  rose  in  that  gradual  way  nearly  3,000 
feet  before  it  reached  the  mountains.  The  curi- 
ous streak  in  the  bottom  of  the  Mesquite  Valley 
was  the  swamp  of  Salt  Creek,  where  the  water 
was  so  bad  you  could  not  drink  it.  It  joined  the 
morass  in  the  bottom  of  Death  Valley.  There 
were  quicksands  there,  that  you  could  not  get 
out  of  if  you  got  in.  Men  and  burros  had  been 
lost  that  way.  He  pointed  out  little,  white  heaps 
down  by  Salt  Creek  and  said  they  were  sand- 
dunes  a  hundred  feet  high. 

While  we  sat  there  a  storm  swept  down  the 
big  slope  and  around  on  the  face  of  the  high 
Panamints  above  Death  Valley.  First  the  wind 
lifted  the  sand  in  the  tall  whirling  wraiths  that 
fled  before  the  pursuing  host  of  the  rain.  It 
came  on  like  an  army  of  giants  in  bright  armor, 
dust-clouds  swirling  before  their  horses'  gallop- 

[no] 


Entering  Death  Valley 


ing  feet,  the  sun  gleaming  on  their  million  spears 
that  reached  higher  than  the  mountain-tops. 
In  the  midst  of  blazing  sunshine  the  shadow  of 
their  passing  was  dark  on  the  valley;  for  a  few 
moments  they  obliterated  the  mountains. 

"Surely,"  Charlotte  said,  "it  is  pouring  rain 
over  there,  yet  they  told  us  it  never  rains  in 
Death  Valley" 

"That's  some  rain,"  he  admitted,  "but  maybe 
it  ain't  wetting  the  sand.  I've  been  in  storms  like 
that  when  the  water  all  evaporated  before  it 
got  down." 

"But  it  must  rain  sometimes  and  the  water  get 
down,"  I  objected  to  both  of  them,  "for  Shady 
Myrick  said  that  he  had  seen  the  valley  full  of 
flowers." 

"I've  seen  'em,"  he  assented,  with  a  sudden 
eager  lighting  of  his  face — "yes!" 

They  did  not  happen  to  bloom  while  we  were 
there  but  we  believe  in  them.  Anything  might 
happen,  anything  could  be  true  in  that  terrible, 
bright  place. 


[Ill] 


VI 

The  Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

ON  the  fourth  day  we  bade  "Old  Johnnie" 
farewell,  and  descended  into  the  quiver- 
ing white  basin.  The  next  camp  was  to 
be  at  Furnace  Creek  Ranch,  the  irrigated  farm 
in  the  bottom  of  the  valley  established  long  ago 
in  connection  with  the  original  borax-works  of 
the  Twenty-Mule-Team  brand.  The  water  for 
irrigation  is  brought  down  in  a  ditch  from  Fur- 
nace Creek  in  the  canyon  between  the  Funeral 
Mountains  and  the  Black  Mountains  and  the 
ranch  is  a  large,  green  patch  on  the  sand.  In 
any  ordinary  place,  or  in  any  ordinary  light  it 
would  be  a  conspicuous  feature  of  the  landscape; 
but,  though  ''Old  Johnnie"  had  pointed  it  out 
so  carefully,  we  could  never  distinguish  it  nor 
could  we  see  it  during  our  approach  that  day 
until  we  were  within  half  a  mile  of  it.    Through- 

[112] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

out  the  journey  the  valley-floor  presented  the 
same  unbroken,  white  expanse. 

For  several  miles  our  way  continued  down  the 
mesa.  Here  was  no  road,  only  a  lurching  and 
grinding  down  a  rocky  wash,  crawling  over  the 
edge  in  the  hope  of  something  better  and  return- 
ing again  to  the  ills  we  knew.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  slender-spoked  wheels  must  collapse 
under  the  strain.  Our  tower  of  baggage  swayed 
dangerously.  The  Official  Worrier  was  a  skill- 
ful driver  and  he  needed  to  be,  not  only  on  this 
day  but  on  several  subsequent  ones  which  sur- 
passed it.  About  noon  we  reached  the  road  that 
leads  from  Salt  Creek  at  the  southern  end  of 
Mesquite  Valley  across  the  northern  end  of 
Death  Valley  and  along  its  eastern  side  to  the 
ranch.  This  road  was  an  improvement  on  the 
uncharted  wash.  There  were  no  rocks  in  it;  but 
it  soon  became  sandy,  two  deep  ruts  meandering 
of¥  toward  the  white  floor. 

Presently  we  came  to  its  edge  and  skirted  the 
swamp  of  the  Armagosa  River,  the  morass  of 
mud  and  quicksands  which  fills  the  whole  bot- 
tom of  the  valley,  an  immense  expanse  covered 

["3] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


with  large  white  crystals  and  a  powdery  sub- 
stance that  looks  like  coarse  salt.  The  valley 
probably  was  once  the  bed  of  a  salt-lake  whose 
slow  evaporation  left  the  thick  alkali  crust.  The 
ruts  were  very  deep  and  the  ground  soft  to  walk 
on,  spongy  and  hummocky.  The  Worrier  said 
that  if  the  wagon  were  to  get  out  of  the  ruts 
it  easily  might  be  mired.  "Old  Johnnie"  told  us 
that  in  some  places  in  the  middle  of  the  bog  a 
team  or  a  man  walking  could  be  sucked  down 
out  of  sight  and  one  of  his  tales  was  of  finding  a 
dead  man's  face  looking  up  at  him  out  of  the 
ground. 

"He  was  a  Swede  with  yellow  hair,"  he  said, 
"and  he  stared  at  the  sun.  He  sank  stand- 
ing up." 

The  road  which  crosses  the  valley  below  the 
ranch  near  the  old  Eagle  Borax  Works  is  said 
to  be  almost  the  only  way  to  get  over  the  swamp. 
The  Panamint  Indians  are  supposed  to  have 
known  this  route  and  to  have  crossed  the  valley 
to  escape  from  their  enemies,  who  dared  not 
follow  them. 

A  Government  bench-mark  by  the  roadside 
["4] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

indicated  258  feet  below  sea  level.  The  heat 
was  oppressive,  and  the  white  ground  reflected  a 
blinding  light.  At  one  place,  rounding  the  base 
of  a  hill  which  shut  off  the  view  of  the  nearby 
mountains,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of 
miles  of  the  shining  whiteness.  It  spread  in 
every  direction,  reaching  to  the  distant  Pana- 
mints  across  the  valley  and  to  the  hazy  outline 
of  the  low  range  at  the  southern  end.  The  hill 
which  we  were  passing  rose  into  the  sky,  white 
as  the  plain  except  for  a  few  streaks  of  ugly, 
greenish-yellow-like  sulphur.  No  living  green 
thing  appeared.  The  white  expanse  was  un- 
broken by  a  bush  or  even  by  an  outjutting  rock. 
The  desolation  was  complete.  An  intense 
silence  lay  over  it.  If  we  dropped  far  enough 
behind  the  wagon  not  to  hear  the  creaking  of  its 
wheels,  we  felt  utterly  alone,  the  only  survivors 
in  a  dead  universe.  That  day  the  sky  was  a  hot 
purplish-blue;  no  cloud  shadows  drifting  over 
the  valley  relieved  its  blinding  monotony.  The 
rose  and  silver  which  we  had  seen  from  above 
were  gone,  not  even  the  illusion  of  water  far  off 
remained.     The  sun  stared  steadily  down.     It 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


was  the  far-spread,  motionless  silence  of  the  last 
days  when  the  whole  earth  will  be  dying. 

Winding  around  the  hill  we  came  to  the  ruins 
of  a  borax-works.  This  had  been  the  first  plant 
in  the  valley,  then  the  Eagle  Borax  Works  south 
of  the  ranch  was  operated,  but  now  the  borax 
comes  from  the  mines  in  the  mountains  at  Ryan. 
Nothing  was  left  of  the  old  borax-works  except 
a  few  roofless  stone  buildings  and  the  ruins  of 
the  works  which  looked  like  a  row  of  immense 
vats  embedded  in  the  side  of  a  low  ridge.  The 
vats  and  the  ridge  had  the  same  sulphurous  color, 
and  melted  together.  Around  the  buildings  the 
ground  was  covered  with  tin  cans  and  broken 
bottles,  but  the  square  of  dark-blue  shade  beside 
each  house  was  a  blessed  relief  from  the  burn- 
ing sun. 

Beyond  the  old  borax-works  the  road  wound 
through  sand  covered  with  large  mesquites  and 
greasewoods.  Though  the  mesquite  is  called  a 
tree  it  looks  more  like  an  overgrown,  thorny 
shrub.  It  grows  near  swamps  and  dry  lakes 
and  is  supposed  to  be  a  sure  indication  of  water, 
but  its  roots  go  down  very  deep  and  it  appears 

[116] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

in  desolations  of  sand  where  it  would  be  unwise 
for  the  wayfarer  to  dig.  Those  mesquites  in 
Death  Valley  looked  very  hopeless  indeed, 
sprangling,  thorny,  leafless  things  with  a  hillock 
of  sand  blown  around  the  roots  of  each. 

As  we  descended  into  the  valley  and  came 
along  the  edge  of  the  morass  a  feeling  of  deep 
lassitude  and  inertia  gradually  crept  over  Char- 
lotte and  me.  It  had  been  very  hard  to  leave  the 
dark  squares  of  shade  at  the  borax-works,  and 
now  as  we  crawled  along  among  the  mesquites 
we  felt  that  the  white  monotony  would  go  on 
forever.  It  pressed  upon  us  like  a  weight  that 
never,  never  could  be  lifted.  We  stared  down  at 
the  sand  with  unseeing  eyes  and  went  on  because 
we  were  in  the  habit  of  going  on.  The  ranch 
was  only  an  imagining,  born  of  vain  hope. 

And  then  the  strange-looking,  tufted  tops  of 
some  tall  palms  appeared  against  the  sky.  They 
were  very  striking  and  we  thought  they  must 
still  be  far  off  or  we  would  have  seen  them  all 
day,  but  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  we  reached 
the  fence  which  separated  the  desert  from  the 
emerald-green  fields.    The  sudden  springing  up 

["7] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


of  the  ranch  was  as  unreal  as  any  imagining. 
The  fence  was  a  sharp  line  of  demarcation.  On 
one  side  the  sand  drifted  up  to  it,  on  the  other 
were  meadows  and  big  willow  trees.  It  was 
evening  when  we  arrived,  so  we  camped  at  once 
by  the  irrigation-ditch  which  made  a  narrow 
green  ribbon  across  the  sand  with  grass  and 
trees  growing  along  its  banks.  We  built  our 
fire  between  an  encampment  of  Indians  and  the 
white  adobe  ranch-buildings  beyond  the  fence. 
The  water  rushed  down  the  ditch,  clear  and  cool. 
How  marvelous  this  running  water  seemed! 
How  marvelous  to  dip  out  all  we  wanted  to  wash 
ourselves  and  our  clothes  and  our  dishes! 

Our  felicity,  however,  was  short-lived.  The 
Panamint  Indians,  in  common  probably  with  all 
Indians,  do  not  count  cleanliness  among  their 
virtues.  The  rising  of  the  fierce,  hot  sun 
brought  millions  of  flies  which  converted  our 
dishes  and  camp  equipment  into  black  masses 
that  crawled.  Between  the  Indians  and  the  large 
herd  of  cattle  at  the  ranch,  camping  by  the  irri-^ 
gation-ditch  was  impossible.  We  spent  most 
of  the  forenoon  moving  a  mile  or  two  away 

[.i8] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

among  the  mesquites.  We  were  on  the  grad- 
ually sloping  ground  which  leads  up  from  the 
valley-floor  to  the  rock-walls  of  the  Funeral 
Mountains.  Here  in  the  valley  we  found  that 
our  impression  from  the  Keane  Wonder  Mine 
of  mountains  rising  precipitously  from  the  flat 
white  floor  had  been  an  illusion.  The  charac- 
teristic mesa  of  the  Mojave  curves  up  on  both 
sides,  sandy,  covered  with  stones,  but  often  en- 
tirely bare  of  vegetation.  Death  Valley  is 
always  full  of  such  illusions.  Even  afterwards, 
when  we  knew  better,  we  could  never  look  down 
into  the  valley  from  a  height  without  feeling 
that  the  mountains  rose  precipitously  out  of  it. 
That  camp  among  the  mesquites  blazed.  The 
yellow  sand  seemed  to  smite  our  eyes.  Across 
the  valley  under  the  edge  of  the  Panamints  the 
mesa  looked  a  beautiful  dark-blue,  but  around 
us  was  an  even  greater  ecstasy  of  light  than  we 
had  known  at  Keane  Wonder.  Everything 
blazed,  the  sand,  the  slow  waves  of  the  heat 
shimmer,  the  little  rounded  stony  hills  between 
us  and  the  Funeral  Mountains,  and  the  steel-blue 
battlements  of  the  mountains  themselves. 

[■19] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


The  Indians  at  the  ranch  are  employed  as 
laborers,  when  they  will  work.  The  superin- 
tendent, a  vigorous,  silent  Scotchman,  was  ex- 
tremely pessimistic  about  them.  While  we  were 
there  they  had  "the  flu"  and  all  we  ever  saw  them 
do  was  sit  around  the  corral  waiting  for  supplies 
to  be  handed  out.  The  women  and  girls,  with 
heavy  melancholy  faces,  gathered  and  stared  at 
us.  They  stared  with  the  stolid  curiosity  of 
cattle,  not  like  burros  who  twitch  their  ears 
saucily,  though  they  have  the  burro's  reputation 
for  thievishness.  The  superintendent  kept 
everything  under  lock  and  key.  The  only  Indian 
who  showed  a  sign  of  life  was  an  old  fellow  who 
prowled  around  with  a  gun  after  the  birds  and 
wild  ducks  that  make  the  ranch  a  resting-place 
in  their  flights  across  the  desert.  We  were  told 
that  there  was  only  one  gun  in  the  whole  encamp- 
ment and  that  the  younger  men  hunted  with 
bows  and  arrows.  Most  of  them  looked  stunted 
and  their  faces  were  wrinkled  like  the  skins  of 
shrunken,  dried-up  apples,  as  though  the  valley 
were  taking  toll  of  the  generations  of  their  race. 

The  valley  takes  its  toll.  Most  white  men 
[120] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

cannot  live  there  long.  The  vigorous  Scotch- 
man had  been  at  the  ranch  eight  years  and 
thought  he  could  remain,  but  no  one  else  had 
ever  stayed  such  a  length  of  time,  and  he  had 
difficulty  in  finding  anybody  to  keep  him  com- 
pany for  more  than  a  few  months.  He  told  us 
that  no  white  woman  can  stand  it  at  all  in  sum- 
mer. As  Charlotte  and  I  were  almost  pros- 
trated even  in  early  March,  we  are  willing  to 
accept  the  statement.  Nothing  that  anyone  can 
tell  us  of  the  evil  effects  of  living  in  the  valley 
is  beyond  our  imaginations.  At  times  the  ther- 
mometer goes  up  to  130  degrees,  but  there  is 
something  worse  than  the  heat.  The  Worrier 
claimed  that  130  degrees  was  not  uncommon  in 
Silver  Lake,  and  that  he  spent  his  summers  there 
without  suffering  as  people  do  in  the  valley. 
The  mercury  never  rose  above  98  degrees  while 
we  were  at  the  ranch,  a  temperature  by  no  means 
unknown  in  eastern  summers,  yet  our  feeling 
of  lassitude  increased  daily,  combined  with  a 
faintness  and  giddiness  that  we  could  hardly 
combat.  The  blazing  light  had  much  to  do  with 
it,  and  we  were  below  sea-level.     A  learned, 

[121] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


scientific  man  has  since  told  us  that  so  small  a 
drop  in  elevation  could  not  be  noticeable.  Those 
old-timers  who  went  insane  on  the  hot  sands 
knew  that  it  was  noticeable.  You  feel  that  if 
you  were  to  go  out  into  that  blazing  silence  you 
could  easily  go  insane,  or  succumb  to  the  deadly 
inertia  which  paralyzed  Charlotte  and  me.  Too 
easily  you  could  lie  down  in  the  thin,  delusive 
shade  of  some  little  bush  and  forget.  Even  be- 
neath the  willow  trees  beside  the  flowing  water 
we  could  scarcely  move,  our  minds  were  dazed 
so  we  could  neither  read  nor  think.  We  under- 
stood "Old  Johnnie's"  feeling  about  the  valley. 
Something  hostile  lives  there. 

The  ghastly,  shining  swamp  and  the  pools  of. 
poisonous  water  are  horrible  to  the  imagination 
because  of  their  unnaturalness  in  the  midst  of 
such  choking  thirst.  Only  the  perverted  brain 
of  a  demon  could  have  invented  such  a  mon- 
strosity. Water  is  in  your  thoughts  all  the  time. 
From  morning  until  night  you  are  thirsty  in  the 
dry  heat,  and  you  look  out  over  the  shimmering, 
miles  and  know  that,  though  there  is  water 
here   and   there,   if   you   leave    the   irrigation- 

[122] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

ditch  you  cannot  quench  your  thirst.  You  cling 
to  the  narrow  green  line  where  the  mountain- 
water  flows  down.  The  feeling  grows  on  you 
that  you  are  visiting  some  sinister  world  which 
can  be  no  part  of  your  beloved  earth. 

And  then  night  comes.  A  miracle  happens 
and  you  know  this  is  the  same  outdoors  you  love, 
only  its  trappings  are  put  off,  it  is  stripped  of 
obscuring  verdure,  naked,  and  you  find  it  more 
terrible  than  you  thought  it  could  be  and  more 
beautiful  than  you  thought  it  could  be.  The 
rising  and  the  setting  of  that  cruel  sun  are  great 
splendors,  that  dark  night  sky  is  bigger  and 
deeper  than  in  kinder  countries.  The  stars  are 
very  near,  floating  in  a  sea  so  deep  it  reaches  to 
infinity;  they  are  twice  as  big  as  ordinary  stars, 
they  look  like  silver  balls.  The  sky  is  a  deep, 
dark  blue.  The  whole  valley  is  blue  in  the  night 
and  luminous  like  a  sapphire.  The  going-down 
of  the  sun  is  a  pageant;  its  uprising  is  a  triumph. 
You  feel  as  though  you  ought  to  clash  cymbals, 
•you  feel  as  though  you  ought  to  dance  and  sing 
when  the  sun  looks  over  the  mountains.  You 
have  been  remiss  in  worship  all  your  life  be- 

[123] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


cause  you  have  not  learned  to  dance  and  sing  in 
honor  of  the  rising  sun.  The  sun-god  was  wor- 
shiped on  the  desert  for  there  the  sun  is  a  cruel, 
great  god.  His  glory  consumes  the  earth,  but 
he  is  so  absorbed  in  rejoicing  in  his  glory  that 
he  does  not  know  it. 

One  night  we  camped  a  little  way  up  the 
canyon  behind  the  ranch  in  the  vain  hope  of 
finding  a  cooler  spot.  The  canyon  entered  the 
mountain  beside  a  precipitous,  jagged  cliff  made 
of  crumbling  yellow  rock,  so  steep  that  we  could 
scarcely  climb  its  sides.  We  attempted  it  late 
in  the  afternoon  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  view  of 
the  whole  valley  at  sunset,  but  its  knife-edge 
ridges  were  so  sharp  and  crumbling  and  our  en- 
durance so  slight  after  the  burning  day  that  we 
could  not  reach  a  satisfactory  summit.  Being 
shut  up  in  a  canyon  was  no  part  of  our  plan  and 
we  made  the  Worrier  help  us  lug  our  beds  quite 
a  way  from  camp  to  the  top  of  a  little  hill  over- 
looking at  least  part  of  the  valley. 

'Why  don't  you  take  them  to  the  top  of  that 
there  peak?"  he  inquired  sarcastically,  pointing 
at  one  of  the  steel-blue  crests  of  the  Funeral 

[124] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

Range.  We  could  not  help  it  if  he  scoffed,  we 
had  to  see  the  drama  of  the  coming  of  night. 
Panting  from  these  exertions  added  to  our  fruit- 
less effort  to  climb  the  cliff,  we  brought  up  a 
canteen  and  the  few  things  we  needed  and  bade 
him  go  back  and  sleep  happily  under  the  wagon. 
We  ourselves  had  very  little  sleep  on  the  hill- 
top for  the  drama  was  too  stupendous.  Slowly 
the  mountains  turned  blue,  and  then  bluer. 
Their  beautiful  skyline  was  drawn  with  a  pencil 
that  left  a  golden,  luminous  mark.  Pale  blue 
crept  into  the  valley,  indigo  lay  in  pools  among 
the  foothills.  The  whole  night  was  a  succession 
of  studies  in  blue  like  the  blue  nights  some 
artists  paint,  but  every  shade  of  blue  that  an 
artist  could  mix  on  his  palette  was  there.  Lay- 
ers of  different  blues  lay  one  above  another,  and 
changed,  and  mingled.  The  enormous  stars 
came  out  and  hung  in  the  sky  like  great  lamps. 
The  sapphire  valley  glistened  beneath  them. 
The  lamps  swung  slowly  toward  the  west  and 
then  were  gradually  extinguished.  The  sapphire 
turned  into  a  moonstone,  palely  glimmering,  and 
then  into  an  opal  full  of  flashing  fires.     The 

[I2S] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


cruel,  great  god  was  coming.  He  came,  and 
we  were  two  tongue-tied  fools  longing  to  cele- 
brate him  and  only  standing  mute  and  bewil- 
dered. 

We  always  felt  that  longing  and  that  bewil- 
derment during  the  evenings  and  nights  and 
mornings  in  the  White  Heart.  They  over- 
whelmed us  and  hurt  us.  We  were  like  prison- 
ers shut  in  by  the  walls  of  ourselves,  unable  to 
break  through  and  be  one  with  such  beauty.  We 
could  not  rest  in  it  as  we  had  rested  for  long 
minutes  by  the  red  promontory  where  we  first 
saw  the  valley;  there  was  too  much  beauty.  We 
clutched  at  each  changing,  evanescent  moment, 
spectators  watching  through  tiny  loopholes  in 
the  walls  a  pageant  which  passed  too  quickly 
and  was  too  big  for  our  understanding. 

The  White  Heart  exceeds  the  imagination 
every  way.  It  is  too  terrible  and  too  splendid. 
It  asserts  itself  tremendously;  the  green  patch 
of  the  ranch  lying  on  the  baked  sand  beside  the 
shining  swamp  seems  more  ephemeral  and  un- 
important than  any  of  man's  efforts  to  tame  the 
desert;  it  is  an  unreality,  a  dream,  and  the  dwell- 

[126] 


Strangest  Farm  in  the  World 

ers  on  it  are  shadows  in  a  dream.  The  majesty 
of  the  valley  completely  overshadows  the  row  of 
tall  palms  against  the  background  of  the  snowy 
Panamints,  and  the  little  oasis  of  alfalfa-fields, 
willow-trees,  and  white  ranch-buildings  blessed 
with  shade.  They  might  vanish  like  a  mirage 
and  never  be  missed.  The  magnificent  proces- 
sion of  the  nights  and  days  passes  over  the  white 
terror,  more  magnificent  than  other  nights  and 
days  precisely  because  of  the  glowing  of  that 
terrible  sand  and  those  terrible  mountains,  per- 
fect for  its  own  sake,  and  utterly  indifferent 
whether  or  not  eyes  and  hearts  can  endure  it. 


[127] 


VII 

The  Burning  Sands 

EVERY  day  that  we  stayed  in  Death  Val- 
ley seemed  more  awful  than  the  last. 
From  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  until 
four  in  the  afternoon  we  existed  in  a  blind  tor- 
por. Eyes  and  brain  and  pumping  heart  could 
not  bear  it.  At  noon  we  always  planned  to  leave 
immediately,  we  panted  to  escape;  then  the  en- 
chantment would  begin  and  we  would  forget 
all  the  plans.  Soon,  however,  it  became  evident 
that  we  must  get  up  into  the  coolness  of  the 
mountains  on  one  side  or  the  other  of  the  burn- 
ing basin,  for  there  was  no  such  thing  as  becom- 
ing acclimated.  In  the  stupor  in  which  we  lived 
the  plans  we  made  were  extremely  incoherent. 
We  only  knew  that  the  mantle  of  snow  on  the 
peaks  of  the  Panamints,  so  serene  above  the  quiv- 
ering heat  of  the  valley,  was  the  most  desirable 

[128] 


The  Burning  Sands 


thing  on  earth.  To  reach  it  with  the  wagon  we 
had  to  circle  the  northern  end  of  the  morass, 
cross  the  low  ridge  into  the  Mesquite  Valley  and 
go  up  the  great  mesa  leading  to  Emigrant  Pass 
behind  the  mountains.  There  we  would  bury 
ourselves  in  the  cold,  wet  snow,  and  rub  it  on  our 
faces  and  fling  it  about,  strong  again  and  able  to 
laugh  at  midday.  The  Worrier  pooh-poohed 
this  plan  when  it  finally  emerged,  for  snow  has 
no  allurement  for  a  "desert  rat."  He  suggested 
that  we  go  on  up  the  canyon  in  which  we  were 
camped  and  thus  quickly  escape,  but  we  refused 
to  consider  that.  We  had  come  for  the  purpose 
of  knowing  the  feel  of  the  valley  and  we  must 
travel  over  the  burning  sands. 

The  Worrier  was  amenable;  he  always  was, 
but  he  liked  to  be  persuaded.  We  went  back  to 
Furnace  Creek  Ranch  from  the  camp  in  the 
canyon  and  stocked  ourselves  with  hay  and 
drinking-water,  as  we  would  find  no  more  good 
water  until  we  reached  Emigrant  Springs  some 
fifty  miles  away.  The  journey  over  that  difficult 
country  would  take  the  better  part  of  four  days. 
Two  of  the  camps  would  be  by  so-called  "bad 

[129] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


water,"  which,  however,  animals  can  drink — the 
first  at  Cow  Creek  not  far  from  the  ranch,  and 
the  second  at  Salt  Creek  in  the  southern  end  of 
Mesquite  Valley.  The  third  would  be  a  *'dry 
camp,"  somewhere  on  the  big  mesa  we  had  seen 
from  the  Keane  Wonder  Mine. 

Leaving  the  ranch  rather  late  on  the  same  day 
we  passed  the  old  borax-works  again,  wound 
round  the  white  and  sulphur-colored  hill 
through  the  spongy,  borax-encrusted  ground 
and  along  the  edge  of  the  sandy  mesa  where  it 
begins  to  rise  from  the  level  bottom  of  the 
valley.  Cow  Creek  is  a  little  green  spot  at  the 
base  of  the  Funeral  Mountains  about  two  miles 
from  the  road.  Though  it  is  near  the  ranch  we 
stopped  there  in  order  to  break  the  long  pull 
from  Furnace  Creek  to  Salt  Creek.  In  Death 
Valley  every  blazing  mile  is  to  be  reckoned  with 
and  it  is  worth  while  to  shorten  a  day's  journey 
from  twenty  miles  to  sixteen.  No  track  led  to 
Cow  Creek  from  the  road,  and  the  mesa,  which 
looked  quite  level,  turned  out  to  be  as  steep  as 
usual.  It  was  broken  by  little  washes  and  thinly 
covered  with  brush.    Bumping  over  it  under  the 

[130] 


v*^ 


ft»l 


The  Burning  Sands 


hot  sun  we  felt  again  as  though  we  were  in  the 
midst  of  an  interminable  monotony.  The  moun- 
tain seemed  unattainable.  Charlotte  and  I, 
suffering  from  the  usual  lassitude  and  complete 
lack  of  ambition,  wanted  to  stop  and  camp  on 
the  sand  beside  a  large  mesquite,  the  only  thing 
anywhere  that  cast  a  big  enough  shadow  to  sit 
down  in,  and  we  had  a  sharp  argument  with  the 
Worrier. 

'Tou  can't  do  that,"  he  said.  ''It  don't  matter 
so  much  to-day,  the  water  ain't  far,  but  to- 
morrow you  got  to  go  on  and  you  better  do  it 
now.  When  we  start  you've  got  to  get  there,  or 
we  don't  start." 

That  was  unanswerable  and  we  dragged  our- 
selves on  until  we  reached  a  large  rock  near  the 
spring  with  a  square  of  blue  darkness  beside  it. 
He  was  satisfied  with  our  endeavor  and  let  us 
make  camp  there  while  he  took  the  horses  to 
the  spring.  Cow  Creek  is  chiefly  memorable 
for  another  argument,  a  long,  warm  debate  as 
to  whether  or  not  Molly  and  Bill  could  haul  the 
outfit  up  the  four-thousand-foot  rise  to  Emigrant 
Springs.    Charlotte  maintained  that  they  could 

[131] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


not.  She  based  her  argument  entirely  on  the 
appearance  of  Molly  and  Bill  and  she  had  a 
good  one;  but  I,  inspired  by  the  band  of  snow 
on  the  tops  of  the  Panamints  and  the  mountain- 
climber's  zeal,  met  it  with  spirit.  I  said  that 
Molly  and  Bill  could  do  it  because  they  were 
"desert-proof  Indian  horses."  The  Worrier  lay 
at  full  length  on  the  sand,  apparently  lost  to  the 
world.  I  demanded  what  he  thought  about  it. 
He  replied  sleepily  that  you  "never  can  tell  'til 
you  try."  All  the  time  we  were  in  the  valley 
we  argued,  and  itis  to  the  credit  of  all  three  of 
us  that  the  arguments  never  degenerated  into 
quarrels.  Our  nerves  were  very  near  the  sur- 
face. Everything  was  difficult  to  do,  packing 
and  unpacking,  cooking,  shaking  the  sand  out 
of  the  blankets,  hitching-up,  getting  anywhere, 
gathering  brush  for  our  poor  little  fires.  We  all 
did  the  minimum  of  work,  and  the  desert  de- 
mands very  little  of  the  camper-out,  but  under 
the  weight  that  seemed  to  be  always  pressing 
down  on  us  that  little  was  hard  even  for  the 
Worrier. 

Next  morning  we  arose  with  the  dawn  and 
[132] 


The  Burning  Sands 


hastened  to  get  underway  during  the  cool  hours. 
The  road  lay  over  miles  and  miles  of  sand,  dotted 
in  some  places  with  sad-looking  brush  and 
streaked  sometimes  with  the  white  borax  deposit. 
As  always,  the  morning  was  radiant.  The  valley 
was  beautiful,  wrapped  in  its  lonely  silence,  and 
for  the  first  few  hours  Charlotte  and  I  forgot 
our  discomforts  in  the  circle  of  high  mountains, 
blue  and  red  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  clean  sweep 
of  the  sand;  but  by  noon  we  could  not  see  any- 
thing and  had  to  ride  ignominiously  in  the  wagon 
with  our  eyes  on  the  very  tiny  oblong  shadow 
that  traveled  beside  it.  Charlotte  had  dark 
glasses,  but  she  seemed  to  suffer  as  much  as  I, 
who  lived  again  through  the  nightmare  of  my 
childhood's  dream.  A  hot  haze  lay  over  all 
the  distances,  though  the  air  was  clear,  and  the 
nearby  little  stones  and  bushes  blazed.  The 
wagon  crawled  on,  the  sand  falling  in  bright 
showers  from  the  slowly  turning  wheels,  until 
Molly  and  Bill  stopped.  We  shook  the  reins 
with  what  energy  we  had  left,  and  the  Worrier 
came  up  and  shouted  and  threw  stones,  but  they 
only  looked  around  at  us  pathetically. 

[133] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


"We  might  as  well  eat  lunch  here  and  let  'em 
rest,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  shade  except  the  bit  beside  the 
wagon.  We  sat  in  that  and  leaned  against  the 
wheels.  They  would  not  move  for  Molly  and 
Bill  hung  down  their  heads  and  the  sweat 
streamed  off  them.  The  sand  glittered  with 
little  particles  of  mica,  which  added  to  the 
glaring  brightness.  Toward  the  south  the  illu- 
sion of  water  appeared  once  more,  not  blue  but 
a  glassy  gray  with  several  strange-looking  shrubs 
reflected  in  it  upside  down.  There  was  nothing 
between  us  and  the  ranch  to  look  so  large,  un- 
less it  were  magnified  like  the  stunted  little 
bushes  in  the  mirage  at  Silver  Lake.  The  Wor- 
rier decided  that  these  appearances  could  only 
be  the  palm  trees,  though  they  did  not  look  in 
the  least  like  palm  trees  nor  could  we  see  a  sign 
of  the  green  patch  of  the  ranch.  It  is  curious 
that  we  never  saw  Furnace  Creek  Ranch  from 
any  of  the  places  where  we  had  views  of  the 
valley,  either  before  we  had  been  there  or  after- 
wards, or  while  we  were  approaching  or  leaving 
it.    It  sprang  from  the  earth  by  magic  for  our 

[134] 


The  Burning  Sands 


bewilderment  and  vanished  the  instant  we  went 
away. 

That  lunch-place  was  in  the  middle  of  Death 
Valley  at  the  northern  edge  of  the  morass.  Ever 
since  coming  down  from  the  Keane  Wonder 
Mine  we  had  been  below  sea-level.  Tradition 
has  it  that  the  lowest  part  of  the  valley  is  south 
of  the  Ranch,  near  the  old  Eagle  Borax  Works, 
but  the  bench-marks  of  the  government's  survey 
indicate  that  the  part  opposite  the  white  and 
sulphur-colored  hill  by  the  borax-works  which 
we  had  passed  is  the  lowest.  Two  iron  posts 
driven  into  the  ground  along  the  road  had  read 
respectively  253  and  257  feet  below  sea-level. 
The  lowest  point,  280  feet,  was  in  the  morass  at 
our  end  of  the  valley  not  very  far  away.  Whether 
being  below  sea-level  has  an  effect  or  not  we  all 
suffered  that  day.  The  Worrier  guessed  the  tem- 
perature at  about  105  degrees,  but  said  that  it 
felt  like  120  degrees  at  Silver  Lake.  The  sun 
seemed  to  stand  still  in  a  hard  sky.  The  heat 
rose  solidly  from  the  endless  white  sand,  the 
vast  glistening  swamp  and  the  metallic-look- 
ing mountains.     We  were  in  the  midst  of  an 

[135] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


immense  movelessness,  in  a  silence  never  to  be 
broken. 

After  an  hour's  halt  we  started  on  again, 
Charlotte  and  I  in  the  wagon,  though  we  could 
hardly  bear  to  be  dragged  through  the  heavy- 
sand  by  that  unhappy  horse  and  mule.  Even  in 
the  wagon  our  heads  swam,  the  ground  would 
not  stay  still  under  us,  the  sun  seemed  to  drink 
every  bit  of  moisture  from  our  bodies  so  we 
burned  in  the  heat  instead  of  perspiring.  The 
skin  of  our  faces  and  hands  felt  dried  up  and  as 
though  it  might  chip  oflf.  We  were  blind  and 
parched  with  thirst.  The  water  in  the  canteens 
was  hot  and  did  not  help  us  much.  Molly  and 
Bill  kept  trying  to  stop,  and  little  stones  the 
Worrier  threw  as  he  walked  behind  whizzed 
past  our  heads  and  thudded  on  their  tired  flanks. 
We  had  to  fight  the  hope  that  they  would  stop 
for  good  and  let  us  creep  under  the  wagon  and 
shut  our  eyes;  but  we  never  suggested  doing  it. 
"When  you  start  you  got  to  get  there." 

The  Worrier  himself  suggested  stopping  two 
hours  after  lunch  in  the  shade  of  a  little  grove 
of  mesquites,  though  they  were  not  much  good 

[136] 


The  Burning  Sands 


as  shade-trees.  They  were  about  ten  feet  high, 
each  one  with  a  little  hummock  of  sand  blown 
around  its  roots,  and  branches  armed  with  long 
sharp  thorns  spreading  close  to  the  sand.  We 
could  not  get  under  them,  but  for  some  reason 
they  were  more  comforting  than  sitting  beside 
the  wagon. 

''We'll  stay  until  the  sun  gets  above  Tucki 
Mountain,"  he  said.  "We're  getting  alone  fine, 
if  Molly  and  Bill  don't  lay  down." 

"Suppose  they  should  lie  down?" 

"You'd  stay  by  the  wagon  and  I'd  go  back  for 
help."  He  spoke  cheerfully  as  though  the  idea 
of  walking  back  over  the  burning  sands  was 
perfectly  commonplace. 

"I  suppose  you  could  walk  out  of  the  valley 
from  anywhere?" 

"Sure.  Got  to.  I  walked  thirty  miles  once 
without  no  water.  Blazing  hot  as  this  and  not 
a  bush  big  enough  to  get  more  than  my  head 
under.  I  laid  down  by  a  greasewood  most  all 
day.     But  I  made  it." 

Walking  through  the  valley  at  that  season  was 
nothing  to  an  old-timer.     They  often  cross  it 

[137] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


in  June,  July  and  August.  Death  is  lurking 
behind  the  bushes  then,  waiting  for  them.  Along 
the  way  from  Furnace  Creek  we  had  passed  two 
of  the  sun-bleached  boards  set  upright  in  the 
sand  which  mark  graves  on  the  desert. 

As  the  day  cooled  we  wandered  a  little  way 
from  the  road  among  the  mesquite  and  suddenly 
came  upon  another  one.  Near  it  lay  the  skele- 
tons of  two  burros  tied  to  a  bush  and  a  little  fur- 
ther off  a  coffee  pot  beside  the  stones  that  had 
been  a  fireplace.  Someone  had  written  with  a 
pencil  on  the  board :  ''John  Lemoign,  Died  Aug. 
1919." 

The  Worrier  had  known  John  Lemoign.  He 
described  him  as  a  regular  old-timer  who  owned 
a  mine  somewhere  in  Tucki  Mountain.  Our 
friend  seemed  sorry,  but  his  final  comment  was : 

"He  ought  to  have  known  better.  But  they 
never  learn.  They  always  think  they  will  make 
it  this  time." 

Everywhere  that  attitude  toward  accidents  on 
the  desert  was  typical.  "Old  Johnnie"  told  his 
most  gruesome  tales  as  though  the  victims  were 
to  blame.     The  valley  was  an  enemy  to  be  out- 

[■38] 


The  Burning  Sands 


generaled;  if  you  were  a  fool,  of  course  she 
would  get  you.  It  was  a  pity  when  she  did,  in- 
evitable and  not  very  important.  They  were 
not  callous,  for  they  included  themselves  in  the 
"inevitable  and  not  very  important."  When  we 
had  first  talked  to  them  they  seemed  to  us  sin- 
gularly care-free  and  their  faith  in  their  own 
sagacity  and  prowess  pathetically  blind,  but  we 
found  that  we  shared  somewhat  in  their  attitude 
as  we  crossed  the  burning  sands.  We  felt  able 
to  take  care  of  ourselves — could  there  be  a  more 
pathetic  and  blind  faith? — and  if  by  some  re- 
mote mischance  we  should  not  be  able,  it  would 
be  only  another  painful  but  trifling  accident. 
The  sun-bleached  boards  made  us  sorry,  but 
they  did  not  seem  especially  tragic. 

The  point  of  view  is  born  of  the  desert  her- 
self. When  you  are  there,  face  to  face  with  the 
earth  and  the  stars  and  time  day  after  day,  you 
cannot  help  feeling  that  your  role,  however  gal- 
lant and  precious,  is  a  very  small  one.  This  con- 
viction, instead  of  driving  you  to  despair  as  it 
usually  does  when  you  have  it  inside  the  walls 
of  houses,  releases  you  very  unexpectedly  from 

[139] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


all  manner  of  anxieties.  You  are  frightfully 
glad  to  have  a  role  at  all  in  so  vast  and  splendid 
a  drama  and  want  to  defend  it  as  w^ell  as  you 
can,  but  you  do  not  trouble  much  over  the  out- 
come because  the  desert  mixes  up  your  ideas 
about  what  you  call  living  and  dying.  You  see 
the  dreadful,  dead  country  living  in  beauty,  and 
feel  that  the  silence  pressing  around  it  is  alive. 
The  Worrier  said  one  night: 

"My,  ain't  it  awful!  Them  stars  and  every- 
thing.    Makes  you  feel  kind  of  small." 

"Do  you  like  to  look  at  them?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Why  do  you?" 

"I  dunno." 


[140] 


VIII 
The  Dry  Camp 

WHEN  the  sun  stood  over  Tucki  and  the 
mesquites  began  to  have  real  shadows 
beside  them  we  resumed  our  journey. 
The  little  ridge  which  separates  Death  Valley 
from  Salt  Creek  had  looked  very  insignificant 
from  the  Keane  Wonder  Mine,  but  we  climbed 
for  more  than  an  hour  to  cross  it.  It  was  en- 
tirely bare  and  covered  with  small  flat  stones  of 
pale  colors,  lavender,  light-blue,  gray  and  buff, 
pressed  down  into  a  hard  mosaic.  Instead  of 
being  polished  smooth  the  delicately-colored 
little  stones  were  marked  with  intricate  pat- 
terns which  looked  like  the  impressions  of 
leaves  and  sections  of  plants,  as  though  a  van- 
ished vegetation  had  left  its  record  upon  them. 
We  were  not  scientific  enough  to  know  whether 
they  were  really  fossils  or  whether  the  mark- 

[141] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


ings  were  due  to  the  action  of  water  or  some 
other  cause.  So  lovely  were  they  that  in  spite 
of  the  heat  which  still  beat  up  from  the  bright 
ground  Charlotte  and  I  walked  behind  the 
wagon  in  order  to  examine  them.  There,  on 
that  hard  ridge,  where  not  even  one  sickly  sage- 
brush grew,  we  saw  the  fronds  of  ferns  and  the 
stems  and  cups  of  flowers  finely  etched. 

From  the  top  of  the  ridge  the  dim  wagon- 
track  which  we  had  been  following  pitched 
down  an  almost  impossible  hill  to  Salt  Creek,  a 
marsh  formed  by  a  stream  that  keeps  itself 
mostly  underground.  Coarse  grass  grew  in  it, 
looking  very  green  in  the  surrounding  waste, 
alternating  with  streaks  of  white  alkali.  The 
marsh  winds  down  from  the  Mesquite  Valley 
and  cuts  through  the  ridge  into  Death  Valley. 
The  surrounding  country  is  utterly  barren.  A 
little  way  off  up  the  bog  we  could  see  the  be- 
ginning of  the  sand-dunes  which  "Old  Johnnie" 
had  pointed  out,  opposite  us  rose  the  immense 
mesa  leading  up  past  Tucki  Mountain  to  Emi- 
grant Pass  through  the  Panamints,  at  the  left 
just  beyond  the  swamp  stood  the  harsh,  red  mass 

[142] 


The  Dry  Camp 


of  Tucki,  first  a  smooth-looking  bare  slope,  then 
towering  buttresses  and  crags  of  rock.  Our  side 
of  Salt  Creek  was  a  jumble  of  little  stony  hills. 
Save  for  the  grass  and  a  few  dead-looking  mes- 
quites  in  the  swamp  we  could  not  see  a  growing 
thing  in  the  whole  waste. 

You  have  to  dig  a  well  to  get  the  water  from 
Salt  Creek.  Several  shallow  holes  had  been 
dug  where  the  road  began  to  cross  the  marsh, 
and,  as  one  was  clean  enough  for  our  use,  the 
Worrier  was  spared  the  exertion  of  making  an- 
other. Stove  Pipe  Wells,  near  which  the  ring 
of  wagons  is  said  to  be  buried,  is  a  little  further 
up  Salt  Creek  where  some  prospector  once  drove 
down  a  length  of  Stove  Pipe  to  preserve  his 
water-hole.  All  the  water  in  Salt  Creek  is  bit- 
ter and  salty,  intolerable  to  drink.  We  had 
thought  that  we  might  at  least  use  it  for  cooking, 
but  one  taste  killed  that  hope.  We  feared  we 
could  not  eat  potatoes  boiled  in  it,  and  knew  that 
tea  would  be  impossible,  so  once  more  we  drew 
upon  the  fifteen  gallons  which  we  had  brought 
from  Furnace  Creek  Ranch. 

Poor  Molly  and  Bill  had  no  choice  in  the 

[143] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


matter.  They  had  to  drink  the  loathsome  stufif 
which  the  Worrier  drew  up  for  them  from  the 
uninviting  hole.  However,  they  seemed  much 
pleased  with  the  coarse,  green  grass,  the  first 
forage  they  had  had  since  leaving  Daylight 
Springs.  Henceforth  they  would  have  to  get 
their  own  living  with  occasional  small  feeds  of 
grain,  as  we  could  not  carry  enough  hay  to  last 
for  more  than  another  two  days.  By  that  time 
we  should  be  well  up  in  the  mountains;  still, 
remembering  Beatty  and  the  thin  pickings  at 
Daylight  Springs,  and  looking  out  now  over  the 
discouraging  bareness,  their  prospects  seemed 
far  from  cheerful. 

When  we  had  located  our  camp  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  tin  cans  and  ancient  rubbish 
of  other  camps,  the  Worrier  took  his  shot  gun 
from  under  the  wagon  seat  and  went  off  to  hunt 
ducks.  Ducks!  How  could  the  desolation  of 
Salt  Creek,  after  that  journey  over  the  burning 
sands,  yield  ducks?  At  every  green  place 
like  Furnace  Creek  Ranch  and  Saratoga 
Springs,  we  saw  birds.  They  flashed  in  the 
sun    and    their   twitterings    broke    the    silence. 

[144] 


The  Dry  Camp 

While  we  unloaded  the  wagon  that  evening  we 
saw  small  yellow  birds  like  wild  canaries  light 
on  the  mesquites  in  the  swamp,  and  many  tiny 
blue  birds;  but  it  was  hard  to  believe  in  wild 
ducks,  even  harder  there  than  it  had  been  at  the 
ranch  where  the  old  Indian  snooped  around  with 
his  gun. 

The  Worrier's  assurance  was  so  surprising 
that  we  put  off  getting  dinner  and  dragged  our- 
selves to  the  top  of  one  of  the  stony  hills  over- 
looking the  winding  of  Salt  Creek  toward  Death 
Valley  to  watch  him.  From  that  viewpoint  the 
swamp  coiled  between  high,  perpendicular,  sul- 
phur-colored bluffs  like  a  poisonous  snake  glis- 
tening with  green  and  white  spots.  One  small 
blue  pool  far  off  was  its  eye.  The  Worrier  was 
working  his  way  toward  that  from  grass-tussock 
to  grass-tussock.  Presently  he  reached  it  and 
vanished  in  a  bunch  of  rushes  at  its  edge. 

While  we  sat  and  waited  the  enchantment  of 
sunset  began.  The  sky  became  orange  and 
green,  the  terrible  valley  that  we  loved  and 
hated  began  to  put  on  its  sapphire  robe,  the  sul- 
phurous walls  that  prisoned  the  snake  turned 

['45] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


pink,  the  poisonous  blue  eye,  too  blue,  too  bright, 
softened — the  enchanter  almost  had  us  by  the 
throats  again,  ready  to  choke  us  until  tears  came 
in  our  eyes,  when  two  shots  spilt  the  spell.  'iVe 
sprang  up,  startled;  we  had  forgotten  that  a  man 
was  hunting  ducks  in  a  swamp.  A  scramble 
then,  back  to  the  fireplace,  a  hasty  match,  the 
red  fire  kindled  and  leaping  up,  the  smoke- 
blacked  pot  balanced  on  the  iron  bar  stolen  from 
"Old  Johnnie,"  the  soft  clash  of  tin  dishes,  and 
soon  a  proud  hunter  coming  home  through  the 
sapphire  night. 

Early  next  morning  we  were  underway, 
floundering  across  the  swamp.  The  Worrier' 
fulfilled  his  function  by  doing  a  little  worrying 
there,  for  he  remarked  afterwards  that  he  might 
have  lost  Molly  and  Bill.  Salt  Creek  marsh  is 
a  little  sample  of  the  giant  bog  that  makes  the 
bottom  of  Death  Valley  fearful.  The  road 
usually  traveled  to  Emigrant  Pass  leads  along 
the  edge  of  the  marsh  and  through  the  sand- 
dunes  before  it  begins  to  ascend  the  big  mesa, 
but  "Old  Johnnie"  had  instructed  us  to  avoid 
the  heavy  sand  by  keeping  to  the  base  of  Tucki 

[146] 


The  Dry  Camp 


Mountain.  There  was  a  sort  of  track  in  some 
places,  but  mostly  we  ground  among  rocks  and 
made  detours  to  avoid  gullies  too  deep  to  cross. 
The  base  of  the  mountain  had  looked  smooth, 
instead  it  was  cut  by  wide,  deep  washes  full 
rolled-down  boulders.  For  nine  miles  we 
skirted  Tucki  before  we  began  the  ascent  of  the 
mesa  itself.  Not  till  then  did  we  pass  a  bench- 
mark indicating  that  at  last  we  were  as  high  as 
sea-level.  Except  that  the  road  around  the 
mountain  was  rocky  instead  of  sandy  there  was 
very  little  difference  between  the  morning's 
journey  and  the  one  across  Death  Valley.  The 
light  and  heat  were  intense  and  we  suffered  from 
the  same  feeling  of  depression.  Even  when  we 
began  to  ascend  the  mesa  we  were  hardly  con- 
scious of  any  relief.  Though  we  climbed  two 
thousand  feet  that  day  we  were  still  on  the  burn- 
ing sands  under  the  pitiless  sun.  Everything 
burned,  rocks  were  hot  to  the  touch,  the  endless 
stony  ground  was  a  hot  floor.  Tucki  Mountain 
showed  a  dull  red  as  though  it  smoldered,  and 
the  hot  blaze  on  the  mountains  beyond  the  great 
mesa  was  smoke  rising  out  of  furnaces. 

[t47] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


After  passing  the  bench-mark  we  were  in  the 
midst  of  an  immense  space  far  away  from  any 
mountains,  toiling  for  miles  up  a  stony  barren- 
ness where  only  scattered  sagebrush  grew.  The 
road  was  so  washed  out  that  often  no  trace  of  it 
showed  and  the  Worrier  steered  by  intuition. 
The  wagon  groaned  and  swayed,  and  Molly  and 
Bill  stumbled  and  sweated.  In  the  roughest 
places  we  led  them.  We  all  walked  most  of  the 
day  to  lighten  their  load.  A  long  spur  of  Tucki 
Mountain  reached  up  the  mesa  several  miles  to 
the  left,  ending  in  a  red  promontory  which  we 
must  go  around,  and  that  point  became  our  goal. 
We  toiled  and  toiled,  but  it  was  never  any  nearer. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour,  a  day,  a  year  of  putting 
one  foot  heavily  in  front  of  the  other,  and  we 
would  look  up  expecting  some  reward  for  so 
much  labor,  and  the  red  promontory  would  be 
exactly  where  it  was  before. 

In  the  afternoon  we  saw  a  cloud  of  dust  mov- 
ing. We  hoped  it  might  be  wind  coming  to  cool 
us,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  a  cattle  outfit  cutting 
across  the  mesa  to  our  road.  The  dust  cloud 
looked  near,  yet  it  was  fully  two  hours  before  we 

[148] 


The  Dry  Camp 


met  the  cattlemen.  The  sight  of  the  big  herd 
of  cattle  on  the  desert  was  stranger  than  the 
yellow  and  blue  birds  or  the  fabulous  wild  ducks 
had  been.  They  were  being  driven  over  this 
awful  country  to  a  spring  feeding-ground  in 
Wild  Rose  Canyon,  and  they  were  white  with 
dust,  limping  on  sore,  cut  feet.  Two  men  and 
a  boy  in  big  hats  and  with  pistols  at  their  belts 
rode  small  shaggy  horses,  galloping  through  the 
brush  and  shouting  when  the  tired  cattle  tried 
to  stop  or  scatter  at  meeting  us.  Wild  Rose 
Canyon  was  cold  at  this  season,  the  men  said, 
and  there  was  plenty  of  fine  water  in  it.  "A 
river  runs  down  the  middle,"  the  boy  volun- 
teered. We  looked  out  over  the  shimmering 
mesa  stretching  hopelessly  in  all  directions.  A 
canyon  called  Wild  Rose  where  a  river  flowed 
between  the  mountains! 

We  inquired  further  into  the  fairy  tale.  The 
Canyon  was  about  forty  miles  away  by  the  route 
which  we  would  have  to  take  with  the  wagon. 
It  led  up  into  the  high  Panamints.  There  was 
a  spring  by  some  old  charcoal-kilns  right  under 
Mt.  Baldy.     The  cattlemen  knew  nothing  of 

[149] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Telescope  Peak.  They  had  never  heard  of  any 
one  climbing  the  mountains.  They  supposed  it 
was  easy  enough  when  the  snow  was  gone.  No 
doubt  prospectors  had  been  up,  but  there  was 
nothing  there,  it  was  no  good.  We  saw  them 
eying  the  Worrier  curiously,  evidently  wonder- 
ing what  manner  of  creatures  he  had  managed 
to  pick  up. 

After  a  mile  or  two  they  left  us,  turning  ofif 
by  an  ancient  signboard  pointing  vaguely  toward 
the  long,  red  spur  of  Tucki  Mountain  with  the 
legend:  "Water  Eight  Miles,"  and  in  the  oppo- 
site direction  across  the  trackless,  torn-up  waste: 
"Water  Fifteen  Miles."  What  are  eight  miles 
or  fifteen  miles  to  the  modern  man  accustomed 
to  leap  over  distance?  To  the  primitive  trav- 
eler with  horses  and  mules,  and  until  now  all 
travelers  throughout  the  ages  have  been  thus 
primitive,  a  mile  is  a  formidable  reality.  Mo- 
jave teaches  the  truth  about  it.  At  the  end  of 
those  two  days,  that  "Water  Eight  Miles"  was 
as  inaccessible  to  us  as  though  it  had  been  fifty. 
Even  if  we  had  been  full  of  vigor  we  probably 
could  not  have  reached  it  with  the  wagon  over 

[ISO] 


The  Dry  Camp 

that  rough  ground.  The  cattlemen,  however, 
on  their  tough  little  horses,  went  to  it.  We  did 
not  attempt  to  leave  the  two  dim  streaks  that 
occasionally  marked  our  road,  but  at  dusk 
stopped  and  made  camp  beside  them. 

That  was  our  first  genuine  dry  camp,  though 
it  was  the  third  time  we  had  depended  on  the 
water  carried  from  Furnace  Creek.  Water  is 
the  commonest  of  all  commodities,  so  common 
that  we  fail  to  realize  its  meaning  until  we  are 
without  it.  All  the  camps  thus  far  had  been 
resting-places,  homes.  We  had  come  to  feel 
that  any  spot  where  we  built  our  fire  could  be 
home,  for  the  essentials  of  home  are  very  sim- 
ple; a  little  water,  something  to  eat,  a  bit  of  fire, 
and  good  friends.  In  the  mess  at  Keane  Won- 
der, in  the  forbidding  inhospitality  of  Salt 
Creek,  we  had  had  them  all  and  been  at  home; 
but  that  night,  when  the  Worrier  began  to  un- 
load the  wagon  in  the  stark  middle  of  the  soli- 
tary waste,  we  were  not  at  home.  Nor  could 
we  make  it  home,  however  brightly  we  urged 
up  the  fire  or  cheerfully  we  talked.  One  of  the 
essentials  was  missing   and   the   gasoline   cans 

[151] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


could  not  take  its  place.  No  water,  not  even 
bad  water,  not  a  drop!  That  mesa  was  not  a 
human  resting-place;  we  were  aliens  in  it,  tran- 
sients, one-night-standers.  The  Worrier  laughed 
at  our  restless  forlornness.  On  subsequent  trav- 
els we  have  learned  to  make  dry  camps  almost 
as  nonchalantly  as  he  does,  but  they  are  never 
home. 

In  the  hot  miles  between  Furnace  Creek 
Ranch  and  the  mountain-spring  we  learned  the 
meaning  for  our  little  lives  of  the  commonest 
of  commodities.  We  had  never  been  so  thirsty, 
no  amount  of  water  could  satisfy  us,  and  the 
supply  was  limited.  We  had  enough  for  all 
our  needs,  yet  we  never  could  forget  that  there 
was  an  end  to  it.  When  the  jolting  of  the  wagon 
slopped  some  out  around  one  of  the  corks  we 
could  have  wept.  Using  any  for  cooking  or 
washing  dishes,  and  pouring  out  ten  gallons  for 
Molly  and  Bill  at  the  dry  camp  seemed  terrible. 
Until  then  we  had  thoughtlessly  turned  on  a 
faucet,  or  drawn  a  bucket  from  a  well,  or  dipped 
water  out  of  a  stream.  Now  there  was  no 
water.     The  miles  were  not  only  hot,  they  were 

[152] 


The  Dry  Camp 


dry  miles.  The  diminishing  supply  of  warm, 
unattractive  liquid  in  the  dented  gasoline-cans 
was  our  most  precious  possession.  We  would 
have  parted  with  everything  we  had,  rather  than 
lose  it. 

From  the  camping  place  the  red  promontory 
looked  as  far  away  as  it  had  been  at  noon;  we 
seemed  to  have  made  no  impression  on  our  goal. 
Below  us  the  Mesquite  Valley  spread  out,  im- 
mense and  still,  with  the  green  thread  of  Salt 
Creek  crossing  it.  On  the  far  side  rose  the 
Grapevine  Range,  of  which  Corkscrew  Moun- 
tain is  the  southern  end.  The  evening  air  was 
so  clear  that  we  could  see  the  spiral  cliff  and 
the  opening  of  the  canyon  that  leads  to  Daylight 
Pass.  It  looked  ver}?-  near,  yet  how  many  days'- 
journeys  we  had  come  from  there!  Heat  and 
thirst  and  weariness  lay  between.  The  grim- 
ness  of  Death  Valley,  cool  now  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Panamints,  was  hidden  by  the  buttresses 
of  Tucki.  The  long  line  of  sultry  red  rock  that 
had  smoldered  and  smoked  all  day  slowly 
turned  blue  in  the  twilight.  It  seemed  as  though 
you  might  saunter  over  there  and  lay  your  hands 

[•53] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


upon  it,  yet  the  signboard  pointing  to  the  water 
at  its  base  had  read  eight  miles.  We  had  long 
lost  sight  of  the  cattlemen.  Suddenly,  in  the 
dusky  blueness  under  the  mountain,  their  camp 
fire  bloomed  like  a  crimson  cactus  flower. 

Evening  smoothed  the  whole  mesa  into  a  blue 
and  yellow  floor  rounding  gently  the  mountains. 
It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  it  was  every- 
where cut  into  hills  and  canyons  by  washes  fif- 
teen or  twenty  feet  deep  as  it  was  around  our 
camp.  In  the  bottoms  of  the  declivities  large 
greasewoods  and  cacti  grew,  and  occasional 
tufts  of  dried  grass;  but  the  wind-swept  ridges 
were  bare  and  every  particle  of  sand  was  blown 
away  from  among  the  stones.  On  one  of  the 
beaten-down  mosaics  near  our  camp  something 
gleamed  dimly.  We  went  to  it  and  found 
large  white  stones  laid  in  the  form  of  a  cross 
pointing  toward  the  east.  Another  traveler, 
then,  had  stopped  here.  Perhaps  he  had  looked 
at  the  red  promontory  and  the  spiral  clifif  and 
lost  hope;  perhaps  he  had  prayed  for  water; 
or  perhaps  he  had  made  it  as  a  thank-ofifering 
for  the  blessed  coming  of  cool  night. 

[154] 


IX 

The  Mountain  Spring 

THE  next  day's  climb  was  easier,  for  by 
the  time  the  sun  had  asserted  its  full 
vigor  we  were  at  an  altitude  where  the 
air  was  cool,  tinglingly  crisp,  and  so  clear  that 
it  seemed  not  to  exist  at  all.  The  earth  sparkled 
with  laughter  and  shouted  her  joy  in  the  glory 
of  light. 

For  several  hours  the  red  promontory  contin- 
ued to  recede,  then  suddenly  we  were  rounding 
it,  and  soon  afterwards  entered  a  gorge  whose 
sides  steadily  became  higher  and  higher.  The 
bottom  of  the  gorge  was  a  wide,  sandy  wash 
much  cut  up  by  rains,  full  of  boulders  and 
grown  over  with  brush.  The  vegetation  be- 
came ever  greener  and  more  luxuriant.  The 
wash  looked  like  a  wind-tossed  green  river  be- 
tween crumbly,  precipitous  mountains  of  many 
colors.    Some  were  a  dull  red,  some  sage-green, 

[tSS] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


some  buff,  some  dark  yellow,  while  an  occa- 
sional purple  crag  gave  the  canyon  a  savage  ap- 
pearance. These  mountains  had  the  velvet  tex- 
ture which  we  had  seen  at  Saratoga  Springs, 
especially  the  sage-green  ones.  The  colors  were 
not  an  atmospheric  illusion  for  the  mountains 
were  actually  made  of  different  colored  rock. 
We  investigated  them  with  great  interest. 
Though  the  velvet-textured  hills  had  often  been 
all  around  us,  they  were  always  too  far  away  or 
the  sun  was  too  fiercely  hot  for  us  to  get  near 
enough  to  touch  them.  Now  we  walked  along 
the  edge  of  the  wash  picking  up  the  colored 
rocks  while  the  Worrier  led  Molly  and  Bill  up 
the  middle.  It  was  so  steep  that  he  often  had 
to  rest  them. 

About  three  o'clock  we  came  unexpectedly 
upon  a  little  spring.  It  was  in  a  green  cleft  be- 
tween a  red  and  a  yellow  hill  where  the  water 
trickled  over  the  rock  into  a  charming  basin. 
Eagerly  we  dipped  in  our  cups.  It  was  truel 
Here  at  last  was  a  real  mountain  spring,  very 
cold,  tasteless,  a  miraculous  gift  from  Heaven. 
We  drank  and  drank.    The  Worrier  unhitched 

[is6] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


Molly  and  Bill  and  they  broke  away  from  him 
to  rush  at  the  water.  They  did  not  stop  drink- 
ing until  the  last  drop  was  gone. 

This  bit  of  Paradise  was  a  complete  surprise. 
The  map  did  not  show  the  little  spring,  nor 
did  the  Worrier  know  of  its  existence.  It  was 
so  tiny  that  doubtless  it  is  often  dry.  Emigrant 
Springs  itself,  with  a  much  more  plentiful  flow 
of  water,  was  about  a  mile  further  on.  There 
the  canyon  narrowed  with  steep,  high  sides 
broken  into  some  beautifully  shaped  summits. 
The  spring  is  only  a  few  miles  from  a  big  aban- 
doned mining  camp  called  Skidoo  and  used  to 
be  an  important  one  for  desert  travelers.  Some- 
one once  built  a  shack,  and  nearby  was  a  cave 
with  a  fireplace  inside,  also  a  corral,  part  of 
whose  fence  had  since  been  used  for  firewood. 
Like  all  desert  watering  places  the  surround- 
ings were  littered  with  tin  cans,  old  shoes  and 
rusty  iron.  We  know  now  what  becomes  of  all 
the  old  shoes  in  the  world;  they  are  spirited 
away  to  the  desert.  An  ancient  government 
pamphlet  that  we  had  found  blowing  about  in 
one  of  the  shacks  at  Keane  Wonder  and  care- 

[iS7] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


fully  preserved  describes  very  scientifically  how 
to  locate  water,  then  throws  science  to  the  winds 
and  says  that  the  tin  can  is  the  best  of  all  meth- 
ods. When  you  find  a  pile  of  tin  cans  stop  and 
search.  It  is  surprising  how  quickly  you  cease 
to  see  the  litter,  provided  it  is  sufficiently  ancient 
not  to  be  actively  dirty.  The  desert  has  no  fore- 
ground; you  soon  stop  looking  much  for  things 
near  at  hand  and  get  the  horizon-gazing  habit. 
If  a  flower  or  a  shining  stone  is  at  your  feet  you 
see  it  joyfully,  but  if  it  is  a  tin  can  it  does  not 
exist.  There  are  too  many  far-off,  enchanting 
things  to  look  at.  You  are  never  unaware  of  the 
sky,  nor  the  beautiful  curves  of  the  mountains; 
no  forests  nor  roofs  conceal  them  from  you,  and 
your  eyes  pass  untroubled  over  small  uglinesses. 
We  made  our  camp  in  the  shelter  of  an  im- 
mense rock  that  stood  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
wash,  and  settled  down  for  a  long  resting  space. 
The  desert  was  exhibiting  her  variety  in  monot- 
ony. Between  the  burning  sands  and  this  moun- 
tain coolness  what  a  difference,  and  yet  what  an 
essential  sameness!  Here  is  the  same  glittering 
sand,  the  same  colorful  rocks,  the  same  plants, 

[IS8] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


the  same  bare,  crumbling  hills.  The  sun 
blazes  with  the  same  brightness,  turning  every 
projecting  edge  of  rock  and  little  leaf  into  a  spot 
of  light.  The  all-enveloping  silence  is  the  same. 
The  distances  shine  with  the  same  illusion. 

All  around  Emigrant  Springs  are  mountains 
from  five  to  seven  thousand  feet  high.  One  day 
was  devoted  to  a  stifif  climb  up  to  the  abandoned 
mines  at  Skidoo,  at  an  elevation  of  about  6,000 
feet.  A  trail  started  up  from  Emigrant  Springs, 
but  it  looked  very  steep,  so  we  went  a  longer 
way  around  intending  to  come  down  it.  Part 
of  the  route  lay  over  high  ridges  from  which  we 
saw  the  splendid  mass  of  the  snowy  Panamints, 
now  close  at  hand.  We  passed  little  patches  of 
snow  in  the  shadows  of  the  rocks.  The  sky  was 
a  deep  blue  all  day  and  the  air  cold  with  the 
mountain  sting  in  it. 

The  town  of  Skidoo  lay  in  a  high  valley  shut 
off  from  a  view  by  the  surrounding  hills.  They 
were  barren  and  made  of  crumbly  yellow  rock. 
The  long  narrow  basin  itself  was  covered  with 
sagebrush  like  a  blue  carpet.  The  town  had 
consisted  of  one  wide  street  along  which  several 

[159] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


buildings  were  still  standing.  An  incredible 
number  of  stoves,  broken  chairs  and  cooking 
utensils  were  strewn  about.  The  most  imposing 
building  had  been  the  saloon,  behind  which  a 
neatly  piled  wall  of  bottles,  five  feet  high  and 
several  feet  wide,  testified  to  past  good  cheer. 
The  Worrier  said  that  four  thousand  people 
once  had  lived  here.  They  had  brought  water 
twenty-eight  miles  in  a  pipe-line  from  a  spring 
near  Telescope  Peak.  During  the  war  the  pipe 
was  taken  out  and  sold  to  the  government,  but 
we  could  see  the  trench  plainly,  perfectly 
straight,  leading  ofif  toward  Mt.  Baldy  across 
high  ridges.  With  the  taking  out  of  the  water 
Skidoo  died. 

The  place  was  littered  with  paper-covered 
books  and  old  magazines.  In  one  house  we 
found  a  pile  of  copies  of  a  work  entitled  "Mys- 
terious Scotty,  or  the  Monte  Cristo  of  Death 
Valley."  Needless  to  say  we  stole  one,  which 
became  a  treasure  to  be  brought  out  in  idle  hours 
by  the  camp-fire.  "Scotty"  was  a  boon  to  the 
Worrier  who  did  not  hold  much  with  the  sort 
of  literature  that  we  carried  around.     Early  in 

[i6o] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


the  expedition  he  had  glanced  over  our  library 
and  preferred  meditation.  We  had  a  few  slim 
volumes  of  verse,  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  some  w^ild 
tales  of  Lord  Dunsany's  and  a  learned  treatise 
on  how  to  paint.  This  last  helped  us  to  keep  up 
the  fiction  of  artistic  greatness. 

From  Skidoo  we  traversed  the  top  of  a  long 
ridge  from  the  precipitous  end  of  which  we  had 
a  superb  view  over  Death  Valley.  We  owed 
this  to  "Old  Johnnie"  who  had  told  us  to  go 
there,  for  among  the  tumbled  peaks  of  the  Pana- 
mint  Range  around  Skidoo  you  could  wander  a 
long  time  without  getting  a  commanding  view 
of  the  valley.  The  point  from  which  we  saw 
it  that  day  was  opposite  Furnace  Creek  Ranch, 
but  even  with  the  glass  we  could  not  distin- 
guish the  green  patch  of  the  ranch,  nor  could  we 
see  the  Eagle  Borax  Works  lower  down.  The 
bottom  looked  like  a  white  plain  with  brown 
streaks  around  and  across  it.  Death  Valley  is 
always  different.  That  afternoon  there  was  no 
play  of  color,  no  magical  mirage.  From  there, 
looking  straight  down  seven  thousand  feet,  it 
was  ghastly,  utterly  unlike  anything  on  the  earth 

[.6.] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


as  most  of  us  know  her.  It  was  like  the  valleys 
on  the  dead,  bright  moon  when  you  look  at  them 
through  a  powerful  telescope. 

We  stayed  too  long  watching  the  shadow  of 
the  Panamints,  as  sharp  and  stark  as  a  shadow 
on  the  moon,  encroach  on  the  white  floor.  Twi- 
light had  begun  by  the  time  we  reached  Skidoo 
again  to  hunt  the  trail  down  to  Emigrant 
Springs.  We  tramped  around  the  rough  hills 
searching  for  it  until  darkness  made  it  impos- 
sible to  distinguish  it  even  if  we  had  found  it. 
There  below  lay  our  camp.  Could  we  have 
gone  down  a  ridge  or  a  canyon  to  it  we  would 
have  defied  the  trail,  but  it  was  necessary  to  go 
crosswise  over  several  of  the  ridges  that  but- 
tress the  mountain,  and  up  and  down  their  steep 
dividing  canyons.  Even  the  Worrier  hesitated 
to  attempt  this  in  the  dark.  Getting  lost  is  one 
of  the  easiest  things  you  can  do  in  desert  moun- 
tains for  they  are  very  broken,  flung  down  seem- 
ingly without  plan,  cut  by  deep,  often  precipi- 
tous gorges.  The  same  old,  tattered  pamphlet 
that  gives  advice  about  tin  cans  also  advises  about 
getting  lost.     It  says  that  persons  not  blessed 

[162] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


with  a  good  sense  of  locality  had  better  find 
some  other  place  than  the  desert  for  the  "exer- 
cise of  their  talents."  Standing  on  top  of  a 
mountain  you  think  you  know  very  well  where 
to  go,  but  when  you  get  into  those  clefts  among 
those  hills  that  look  all  alike  you  find  you  do  not 
know.  Any  moment  you  may  meet  a  barrier  to 
be  climbed  over  with  great  labor  or  gone  around 
at  the  risk  of  getting  involved  in  little  canyons 
leading  ofif  in  the  wrong  direction. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  skirt  around  the 
mountain  and  try  to  get  back  onto  the  path  by 
which  we  had  come.  During  the  quest  we  had 
our  reward  and  were  glad.  Just  as  night  was 
closing  in  a  shadow  rose  like  a  curtain  beyond 
the  mountain-tops  that  shut  Death  Valley  from 
us.  It  was  a  blue  shadow  and  a  rose-colored 
shadow.  It  was  both  those  colors  and  yet  they 
were  not  merged  to  a  purple.  It  seemed  to  rise 
straight  up,  a  live  thing,  as  though  the  spirit  of 
the  valley  were  greeting  the  stars.  The  beau- 
tiful apparition  remained  less  than  a  minute; 
always  after  that  we  looked  toward  deep  valleys 
at  evening  hoping  to  see  it  again,  but  we  never 

[163] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


saw  it,  though  night  made  wonderful  shadows 
and  blue  pools  of  darkness  in  them.  Death 
Valley  is  a  thing  apart.  It  is  a  white  terror 
whose  soul  is  a  miracle  of  rose  and  blue. 

About  an  hour  later  we  came  upon  the  cabin 
of  "Old  Tom  Adams,"  another  old-timer  guard- 
ing his  own  mine  and  Skidoo.  He  came 
out  and  made  a  great  fuss  about  finding 
"ladies."  He  had  heard  of  us  before.  He  of- 
fered to  make  coffee,  but  a  deep  craving  for 
more  substantial  food  forbade  any  delay.  He 
talked  incessantly  and  would  hardly  let  us  go; 
no  doubt  we  were  the  most  exciting  event  for 
a  long  time.  He  described  a  way  to  get  down 
the  mountain  by  following  the  tracks  of  his 
burros.  He  swore  we  could  not  miss  it,  you 
just  "fell  down"  right  into  Emigrant  Springs. 
He  went  a  little  way  with  us  to  be  sure  we 
started  down  the  right  ridge;  after  that  we 
"fell  down"  in  about  two  hours  and  a  half.  It 
was  the  worst,  the  rockiest,  the  steepest  series 
of  hills  and  gullies  we  ever  encountered.  Pres- 
ently the  deceitful  moon  turned  the  bushes  into 
white  ghosts  and  fooled  us  about  the  angle  of 

[164] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


ledges.  From  time  to  time  we  saw  burro  tracks 
in  the  sand,  but  we  suspect  that  a  herd  of  wild 
burros  pastures  around  there.  The  Worrier's 
opinion  of  "the  old  fool"  was  unmentionable, 
nor  did  it  soothe  him  to  suggest  that  the  old  man 
had  tried  to  do  his  best. 

Next  day  Old  Tom  appeared  at  Emigrant 
Springs  wanting  to  know  if  we  had  seen  a  white 
burro  and  a  black  burro.  We  had  that  very 
morning. 

"They're  mine,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  keep 
'em  home." 

Hunting  burros  seemed  to  be  his  life  work. 
Two  weeks  later  we  heard  of  him  twenty  miles 
away  still  hunting  his  burros.  The  Worrier 
opined  that  he  had  no  burros,  but  our  guide  was 
prejudiced. 

We  learned  to  appreciate  what  it  meant  to 
hunt  burros,  for  though  our  burros  were  horses, 
the  Worrier  spent  most  of  the  days  in  camp  look- 
ing for  them.  It  was  amazing  how  far  they 
could  travel  with  hobbles  on.  They  were  clever 
at  hiding,  too,  but  we  were  assured  that  they 
were  dull  compared  to  burros.     Everybody  on 

[165] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


the  desert  seems  to  have  burros  somewhere  that 
he  expects  to  use  some  day.  They  are  all  de- 
lightfully casual  about  them: 

''Did  you  happen  to  see  a  bunch  of  burros  in 
the  gulch  youse  come  through?" 

"No.     Have  you  lost  yours?" 

"Yes.  Gone  about  a  week.  I  thought  maybe 
they  was  over  there." 

The  hope  seems  to  be  that  they  will  come  back 
for  water.  Generally  they  do,  but  sometimes 
they  go  to  some  other  water  hole  and  leave  you 
to  guess  which  one.  At  Silver  Lake  the 
brigand  called  French  Pete  had  come  from 
thirty  miles  off  looking  for  his  burros. 

"You  ought  to  put  a  bell  on  them,"  our  host- 
ess had  told  him. 

"I  did,  but  it's  no  use.  You  can't  find  'em, 
anyway.     They're  too  smart." 

"Do  they  hide?" 

"Hide!  The  one  with  the  bell  gets  behind  a 
rock  and  holds  his  neck  perfectly  still  while  the 
others  bring  him  food!" 

Another  day  at  Emigrant  Springs  was  spent 
in  climbing  Pinto  Peak,  7,450  feet  high.    We 

[166] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


chose  it  because  it  was  the  highest  point  any- 
where around,  and  we  hoped  for  a  good  look  at 
Mt.  Baldy  and  Telescope  Peak  in  order  to  lay 
out  a  route  by  which  to  climb  them.  Pinto 
Peak  is  on  the  west  side  of  Emigrant  Pass,  over- 
looking the  Panamint  Valley  and  all  the  region 
to  the  foot  of  Mt.  Whitney  in  the  Sierra  Ne- 
vada. The  peak  is  not  visible  from  the  spring 
and  we  had  to  guess  at  a  possible  way  up.  We 
began  by  ascending  a  steep  ridge  leading  in  the 
right  direction,  over  and  among  several  little 
summits.  The  ridge  brought  us  to  a  large,  high 
plateau  set  round  with  little  peaks  and  cut  at 
the  sides  by  deep  canyons.  The  top  of  the  ridge 
and  the  plateau  were  dotted  over  with  cedar 
trees,  for  on  the  desert,  where  everything  is  dif- 
ferent, you  do  not  climb  above  the  timber,  you 
climb  up  to  it.  Between  six  and  seven  thousand 
feet  the  trees  begin,  and  sometimes  in  sheltered 
corners  become  twenty  or  thirty  feet  high.  They 
are  not  large  nor  numerous  on  Pinto,  but  there 
are  enough  of  them  to  give  the  ridge  a  speckled 
appearance  from  below.  The  plateau  sloped 
gradually  up  toward  the  west  and  we  selected 

[167] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


the  furthest  little  rounded  rise  as  probably  Pinto 
Peak.  For  two  miles  we  walked  toward  it  over 
comparatively  level  ground.  From  that  side 
Pinto  is  not  especially  interesting  as  a  mountain, 
being  only  a  higher  point  in  a  big  table-land, 
but  its  western  side  is  a  precipice  falling  two 
thousand  feet  into  a  terribly  rocky  and  desolate 
canyon.  Not  until  we  reached  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  plateau  did  the  view  open.  It  appeared 
suddenly,  black  mass  after  black  mass  of  harsh 
mountains  leading  over  to  Mt.  Whitney,  serene 
and  white  on  the  wall  of  the  Sierras.  The  Sierra 
Nevada  are  the  barriers  of  the  desert.  Beyond 
that  glistening  wall  lie  the  lovely  and  fertile 
valleys  of  California.  Over  there  at  that  sea- 
son the  fruit  trees  were  beginning  to  bloom,  on 
this  side  was  only  bareness,  black  rocks,  and  deep 
pits  of  sand. 

Mt.  Whitney  is  toward  the  southern  end  of 
the  high  peaks  of  the  Sierras.  That  day  they 
bit  into  the  sky  like  jagged  white  teeth.  South- 
ward the  range  is  lower,  rising  again  in  Southern 
California  to  the  peaks  of  San  Bernadino  and 
San  Jacinto.     We  could  vaguely  see  San  Ber- 

[i68] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


nadino  Mountain,  mistily  white,  mixed  up  with 
the  clouds.  Below  us  lay  the  Panamint  Valley 
under  the  western  wall  of  the  steep  Panamints 
which  separate  it  from  Death  Valley.  This 
basin  is  neither  so  low  nor  so  large  as  the  famous 
one  east  of  it,  but  is  of  the  same  character.  At 
its  edge,  pressed  against  the  mountain,  we  could 
make  out  with  the  glass  the  once  prosperous 
mining  town  of  Ballarat,  the  Ballarat  that  we 
had  so  gayly  started  to  drive  to  from  Johannes- 
burg. With  the  Worrier's  help  we  traced  the 
route  we  would  have  come  over.  He  pointed 
out  the  red  mountain  on  which  the  three  min- 
ing towns  are  perched,  then  came  a  line  of  low 
hills,  then  an  immense  dry  lake  where  the  Trona 
Borax  Works  are  located,  then  a  range  of  ugly- 
looking  black  mountains,  then  a  long  mesa 
which  he  said  is  almost  as  rough  and  difficult  as 
the  one  we  had  recently  come  over,  then  the 
Panamint  Valley,  shimmering  hot,  glistening 
white,  first  cousin  to  Death  Valley  itself.  It 
would  have  been  a  magnificent  drive,  but  sup- 
pose we  had  undertaken  it  in  the  sublime  inno- 
cence that  was  ours  at  the  time!     We  had  never 

[169] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


crossed  a  dry  lake,  never  wrestled  with  a  mesa, 
never  in  our  wildest  imaginings  pictured  such 
a  place  as  the  Panamint  Valley, — and  at  the 
end  we  would  have  found  the  town  deserted! 

"You  wouldn't  have  made  it,"  the  Worrier 
teased  us,  "you  would  have  turned  back  before 
you  got  to  Trona." 

"We  would  not!"  But  in  our  hearts  we 
knew  how  we  would  have  been  weak  from  pure 
fear  of  the  ugly-looking  black  mountains.  The 
terrifying  approach  to  Silver  Lake  was  nothing 
compared  to  them,  nor  would  we  have  had  a 
friendly  little  Ford  chugging  along  ahead. 

As  we  had  hoped,  the  top  of  Pinto  commands 
a  fine  view  of  Telescope  Peak  and  Mt.  Baldy 
joined  by  the  beautiful,  long  ridge  which  re- 
poses so  splendidly  above  Death  Valley.  From 
this  side  they  looked  higher  and  snowier.  We 
studied  them  carefully  with  the  glass.  The 
great  mass  of  snow  was  discouraging,  but  it 
seemed  to  be  blown  off  the  sharp  ridges  which 
showed  black.  Wc  planned  to  move  the  outfit 
as  far  as  possible  up  Wild  Rose  Canyon  which 
branches    off    from    Emigrant    Canyon    about 

[170] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


twenty  miles  above  Emigrant  Springs  and  leads 
up  to  the  far,  high  peaks.  From  there  we 
thought  we  could  climb  the  rounded  summit  of 
Mt.  Baldy  and  walk  along  the  splendid  curve 
to  the  slender  pyramid  of  Telescope.  No  lover 
of  mountains  could  look  at  those  pure,  smooth 
lines  as  long  as  we  had  looked  at  them  and  from 
as  many  aspects  without  being  filled  with  the 
desire  to  set  his  feet  upon  them. 

It  is  not  the  height  of  a  mountain  nor  its  dif- 
ficulty which  makes  it  desirable,  but  something 
in  the  mountain's  own  self.  The  Panamints  are 
neither  very  high  nor  very  difficult,  but  they 
are  dramatic  and  alone.  Besides  the  contrast  of 
their  snow  with  the  burning  sands  beneath,  we 
wanted  the  feel  of  a  truly  lonely  mountain  top. 
The  Panamints  are  truly  lonely.  They  are  not 
objects  of  solicitude  to  any  mountain  club;  no 
tourist  keen  for  adventure,  nor  boy  scout  outfit, 
nor  earnest-eyed  mountaineer  who  carves  the 
record  of  his  conquests  on  his  pipe-bowl  or  his 
walking-stick,  have  left  their  names  up  there. 
No  trail  leads  up  the  Panamints,  nor  are  their 
summits  splashed  over  with  paint  like  the  stately, 

[i7'] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


desecrated  summit  of  Mt.  Whitney.  We  would 
not  be  forced  to  know  in  letters  a  foot  high  that 
on  August  27th,  John  Doe  made  the  ascent.  We 
do  not  hate  John  Doe,  but  we  prefer  to  meet 
him  under  roofs.  If  he  loved  the  mountain, 
rather  than  so  disfigure  it,  he  would  throw  ink 
at  his  most  cherished  possession;  and  only  lovers 
of  mountains  have  the  right  to  invade  their  lone- 
liness. The  Panamints,  with  their  feet  in  the 
burning  heat  of  Death  Valley  and  their  heads 
in  the  snow,  almost  unknown  to  any  save  a  few 
prospectors,  guarded  on  all  sides  by  the  solitudes 
of  the  desert,  seemed  utterly  desirable  to  us. 

We  sat  on  a  rock  studying  the  map,  which  was 
no  help  at  all,  and  eating  the  big,  sweet,  Cali- 
fornia prunes  of  which  we  always  carried  pock- 
ets-full as  aids  to  wayfaring.  The  Worrier 
acquiesced  in  our  mountaineering  project, 
though  without  enthusiasm.  He  bade  us  not 
forget  that  it  would  be  cold  up  there.  The  sight 
of  the  snow  had  already  set  him  shivering.  We 
twitted  him  with  being  a  "desert  rat." 

"You  may  have  got  along  better  than  we  did 
[172] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


in  Death  Valley,"  we  said  to  him,  "but  it's  our 
turn  now;  that's  fair." 

The  Worrier  scorned  prunes  and  always 
looked  on  with  dour  superiority  during  our  con- 
sumption of  them.  Soon  he  left  us  and  went 
to  hunt  the  "lost  mine."  There  are  many 
legends  of  lost  mines  in  the  desert-mountains  and 
we  paid  no  especial  attention  to  this  one,  being 
weary  enough  to  sit  still,  munching  prunes,  and 
looking  out  over  the  fearful,  majestic  landscape. 
In  an  hour  he  came  back  with  a  handful  of  rocks. 
He  laid  them  solemnly  before  us.  They  were 
pieces  of  gold  ore  which  he  had  found  in  a  hole 
a  little  way  below  the  summit. 

"The  lost  mine,"  he  said. 

"You  had  better  come  back  and  work  it,"  we 
laughed. 

"I'll  have  them  assayed."  His  manner  was 
serious. 

"Why,  you  don't  think " 

"I  don't  know.  But  anyways,  we'll  call  it  the 
Prune  Stone  Mine." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  have  them  assayed 
and  did  go  back  with  his  partner;  but  the  Prune 

[^73] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Stone  Mine,  like  so  many  mines  in  the  Death 
Valley  Country,  failed  to  fulfill  its  first 
promise. 

During  the  week  that  we  camped  at  Emigrant 
Springs  we  saw  no  wild  life  except  a  few  little 
brown  birds  that  made  a  happy  twittering  in  the 
mornings.  Sometimes  in  the  blue  night  we 
heard  the  distant  howling  of  coyotes,  and  once 
an  owl  mocked  us  with  a  cry  that  sounded  ridicu- 
lously like  "Hoo,  Hoo,  SkidooT'  He  was  a  na- 
tive, no  doubt,  and  old  in  wisdom.  In  the 
rambles  among  the  mountains  we  found  our  first 
wild  flowers.  They  were  small  except  one 
striking  crimson-velvet  one  with  a  ragged  blos- 
som like  garden  balsam.  It  grew  in  clumps 
about  six  inches  high  and  made  vivid  spots  of 
color  against  the  rocks.  Later,  as  the  spring  ad- 
vanced, we  found  a  great  variety  of  flowers,  but 
never  this  one  except  at  high  altitudes.  Seeing 
it  was  always  a  joyful  heart-beat.  The  graceful 
greasewood  was  in  bloom,  covered  with  small 
yellow  flowers  that  looked  like  little  butterflies 
perched  on  the  slender  branches.  The  nights 
were  still  very  cold,  often  freezing  the  water  in 

[174] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


the  pail,  but  the  days  were  pleasantly  warm. 
The  sun  shone  with  such  dazzling  brightness 
that  during  the  middle  of  the  day  the  shady  sides 
of  rocks  were  the  best  resting  places.  A  fresh, 
steady  wind  blew  nearly  always  up  or  down  the 
canyon,  sometimes  piling  great  white  masses  of 
clouds  in  the  sky,  always  scouring  the  world  in- 
credibly clean.  Each  night  was  a  blue  won- 
der. The  mountains  were  delicate,  luminous 
shapes  in  front  of  a  sky  infinitely  far  away.  The 
big  stars  hung  low  and  burned  with  a  steady, 
silver  shine. 

Every  day  we  climbed  one  or  another  of  the 
ridges  and  smaller  mountains  close  to  the  spring. 
It  was  good  to  lie  on  their  summits  in  the  sun. 
From  any  one  of  them  we  could  look  down  the 
canyon  and  see  the  whole  length  of  the  Mes- 
quite  Valley,  always  the  same,  yet,  like  Death 
Valley,  always  different.  You  can  look  day 
after  day  at  the  deep,  hot  basins  of  the  desert 
without  ever  knowing  them.  Quickly  enough 
you  can  see  the  obvious  features  of  the  Mesquite 
Valley — the  continuation  of  the  Panamints  on 
the  west,  the  wine-red  Grapevine  Mountains  on 

['75] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


the  east,  the  low  blue  hills  in  the  north,  the  level 
bottom  of  the  valley  streaked  with  white  alkali 
where  Salt  Creek  crosses  it  and  "Old  Johnnie's" 
big  sand-dunes  are  glistening  little  ant  hills — but 
you  must  stay  all  the  hours  of  a  long  day  to  find 
out  what  she  really  is,  and  then  you  will  not 
know.     Listen : 

"Behold  me!  You  think  that  I  am  an  arid 
valley  with  a  white  alkali  streak  down  the 
middle  of  my  level-seeming  floor.  You 
think  that  I  am  surrounded  by  red  moun- 
tains, or  perhaps  you  think  they  are  blue, 
or  purple — well,  not  exactly — more  rose. 

"Come  down  to  me  I  I  am  very  deep  be- 
tween the  mountains.  I  am  very  white. 
But  if  you  do  not  like  me  so  I  can  be  a  wide, 
level  plain  covered  with  velvet  for  you  to 
lie  on. 

"Come  down  to  me  I  Rest  beside  this  lake. 
See  how  it  shines,  how  blue  it  isl  I  am  all 
in  white  like  a  young  girl  with  a  turquoise 
breastpin.  You  don't  believe  that?  I  am  a 
witch,  I  can  be  anything.    My  wardrobe  is 

[176] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


full  of  bright  dresses.  I  will  put  them  on 
for  you  one  by  one. 

"See,  I  know  more  colors  of  blue  than  you 
ever  dreamed  of.  When  you  tire  of  blue 
I  change  to  ripe  plums.  Now  I  throw  gray 
gauze  over  my  purple.  I  look  like  a  nun, 
but  am  not.  Here  is  my  yellow  gown. 
You  do  not  like  it?  See,  I  have  all  degrees 
of  red,  fire  red  and  crimson  and  pink,  the 
color  of  bride  roses.  Here  is  my  finest.  It 
is  made  of  every  color,  but  the  tone  of 
it  is  the  gray  breast  of  a  dove.  You  did 
not  know  that  the  breast  of  a  dove 
could  be  made  of  all  colors,  but  now  I  show 
you. 

"Do  you  not  love  me?  You  remember  too 
well  that  I  am  hot  as  a  bake-oven.  You 
think  that  if  any  one  were  fool  enough  to 
come  down  to  me  I  would  steal  behind  and 
grip  him  by  the  throat. 

"What  of  it?    Why  do  you  question  me 

so  much?     You  see  how  old  I  am,  how 

many  storms  have  left  their  scars  on  me, 

and  you  think  I  am  wise.     But  I  am  only 

[177] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


fair.  Is  it  not  enough  to  be  old  and  yet 
fair? 

"Beauty  is  sitting  on  my  topmost  peak 
making  the  enchantments  that  confirm  your 
dreams.  She  experiments  with  many  ma- 
terials; she  makes  new  combinations  for- 
ever. 

"Behold  all  the  desolate  places  how  they 
are  hers — the  lonely  hills,  the  lonely  plains, 
the  lonely  green  sea,  the  lonely  sands — she 
clothes  us  in  gorgeous  raiment,  she  makes 
us  content  with  death.  Where  she  is  your 
heart  can  pasture  even  to  the  emptiness  be- 
between  the  stars." 


A  lifetime  is  not  long  enough  to  listen  to  the 
songs  of  the  desolate  places.  A  whole  sunny, 
timeless  day  is  too  short  to  hear  the  Mesquite 
Valley.  The  days  and  nights  of  the  desert  merge 
into  each  other.  They  are  like  perfectly  matched 
pearls  being  strung  on  an  endless  string.  You 
delight  to  run  your  fingers  over  their  smooth 
surfaces  and  detect  no  difference. 

[178] 


The  Mountain  Spring 


''Do  we  move  to-morrow?"  Thus  the  Wor- 
rier. 

"Why  to-morrow?" 

"We  have  been  here  a  week." 

That  is  not  possible!  How  could  a  week  slide 
into  past  things  so  soon? 


[179] 


X 

The  High  White  Peaks 

WILD  ROSE  CANYON  has  a  lovely 
name,  justified  by  a  small  clump  of 
bushes  that  may  bear  wild  roses  some- 
time. The  canyon,  where  it  branches  east  from 
Emigrant  Pass,  is  very  narrow  with  precipitous 
sides.  Emigrant  Canyon  itself  at  this  point  is 
walled  by  high  cliffs  so  close  together  that  the 
wagon  track  fills  the  gorge.  A  considerable 
stream,  bordered  with  feathery  trees,  flows 
through  the  lower  end  of  Wild  Rose  Canyon 
and  down  Emigrant  Pass  toward  the  Panamint 
Valley  and  Ballarat,  but  dies  before  it  emerges 
from  the  cliff-like  hills  onto  the  long,  stony 
slope  that  leads  into  the  valley.  Once  more  we 
had  been  deceived.  From  Pinto  Peak  the  rocky 
cliffs  appeared  to  rise  directly  out  of  the  Pana- 
mint Valley,  but  a  walk  down  the  western 
descent  of   Emigrant  Pass   revealed  the  same 

[.80] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


long,  brush-covered  slope  that  we  had  learned 
to  know  so  well. 

The  cattlemen  had  been  there  and  gone  away, 
leaving  the  cattle  in  Wild  Rose  for  their  spring 
range.    The  young  steers  huddled  together,  star- 
ing with  their  expression  of  fierce  innocence. 
They  had  tramped  the  stream-bed  into  a  bog  and 
otherwise  made  camping  at  the  mouth  of  the 
canyon  unpleasant.    A  stone  shack  with  an  iron 
roof  was  located  near  the  spring.    It  was  rather 
a  magnificent  shack  with  two  rooms,  the  inner 
one  windowless  like  a  cave.     For  some  reason 
that  seems  to  be  the  approved  way  of  building 
sleeping-rooms  on  the  desert.    At  Keane  Won- 
der veritable  black  holes  were  the  sleeping-quar- 
ters near  the  boarding-house.    The  shack  had 
no  floor  and  the  uneven  ground  was  littered  with 
rubbish,  as  indeed  were  all  the  surroundings. 
The  mess  around  the  spring  at  Wild  Rose  both- 
ered us  more  than  the  litter  anywhere  else.    Per- 
haps it  was  because  we  were  shut  in  on  all  sides 
by  high  walls,  and  there  were  no  vistas  nor  even 
any  beautifully  shaped  summits  to  look  at.    For 
once  the  desert  was  all  foreground,  little  trees 

[.8.] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


along  the  stream,  little  bushes,  little  stones.  A 
tin  can  in  such  a  small  environment  can  hardly 
be  ignored. 

As  soon  as  possible  therefore,  we  pushed  on 
up  the  canyon  which  widened  into  what  looked 
like  a  plain  surrounded  by  mountains.  In  reality 
it  was  level  nowhere,  but  rounded  down  like  a 
giant  oval  basin  about  five  miles  wide  and  seven 
or  eight  miles  long.  The  mountains  on  the  east 
and  south  were  covered  with  cedars  whose  van- 
guard dotted  the  edge  of  the  mesa  under  Mount 
Baldy,  now  become  a  great  white  mass,  very 
near,  led  up  to  by  a  precipitous  ridge  broken 
into  jagged  peaks.  Telescope  Peak  lay  behind 
Baldy  and  was  not  visible.  There  was  more 
snow  than  we  had  supposed  in  our  survey  from 
Pinto  Mountain,  it  lay  all  along  the  jagged  ridge, 
coming  down  in  some  places  almost  to  the  mesa. 
The  northern  wall  of  the  canyon  was  composed 
of  lower  mountains.  The  one  furthest  east  was 
a  big,  pointed,  red  mass,  polka-dotted  with  little 
trees  near  its  summit.  Looking  back  whence 
we  had  come  the  mountains  seemed  to  close  the 
narrow  gorge. 

[182] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


The  cattlemen  had  told  us  that  Wild  Rose 
Canyon  was  full  of  water,  but  after  we  left  the 
spring  we  found  none.  The  big  wash  down  the 
middle  was  dry — the  boy  must  have  seen  it  on 
some  rare  occasion  when  it  had  water  in  it — and 
the  great  bowl  far  too  large  and  too  rough  to 
admit  of  much  scouting  for  springs  at  the  bases 
of  the  mountains.  We  had  thought  that  we 
would  see  the  deserted  charcoal-kilns  and  thus 
find  the  spring  which  the  cattlemen  had  de- 
scribed, but  there  was  no  sign  of  any  kilns.  We 
supposed  that  they  were  somewhere  along  the 
bottom  of  the  precipitous  ridge  that  led  up  to 
Mount  Baldy.  In  that  direction  the  mesa  was 
so  terribly  cut  up  that  we  could  not  attempt  to 
take  the  wagon  there  until  we  had  first  explored 
it,  so  we  made  a  dry  camp  in  the  middle  of  the 
basin  under  the  shelter  of  the  eight-foot-high 
bank  of  the  wash. 

The  wind  had  blown  harder  than  usual  all  day 
with  an  icy  bite  from  the  snowy  heights.  Dur- 
ing the  night  a  racing  cloud  deposited  snow  on 
the  northern  hills  which  before  had  been  bare. 
A  real  storm  now  became  our  fear,  for  a  little 

[183] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


more  snow  would  defeat  our  project.  More- 
over Wild  Rose  Canyon  is  at  an  altitude  where 
the  cold  at  that  time  of  year  is  intense,  and  we 
had  to  depend  on  the  sun's  fires  to  warm  us 
sufficiently  during  the  day  to  make  life  possible 
through  the  night.  The  "desert  rat"  became  a 
bundle  of  misery.  We  had  not  realized  the  para- 
lyzing effect  cold  would  have  on  him.  He  sat 
and  shivered,  apparently  unable  to  move  or  to 
think,  so  utterly  wretched  that  Charlotte  and  I 
offered  to  give  up  the  Panamints  and  ''beat  it" 
to  a  more  salubrious  climate.  We  could  not 
bear  to  see  our  friend  suffer;  but  he  flatly  re- 
fused, angry  with  us  for  even  making  the  sug- 
gestion, saying  that  when  he  started  to  do  a  thing 
he  generally  did  it. 

The  next  morning  was  as  cold  as  ever.  Still 
the  Worrier  refused  to  consider  moving  out,  and 
when  the  sun  had  warmed  the  great  windy  bowl 
a  little,  he  went  back  to  fetch  more  water  from 
the  spring  by  the  old  shack.  We  explored  the 
base  of  the  long  ridge  under  Mount  Baldy  as 
well  as  we  could,  but  failed  to  find  the  charcoal- 
kilns.  However,  it  was  possible  to  get  the  wagon 

[184] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


over  there,  so  in  the  afternoon  we  moved  the 
whole  outfit  up  to  the  first  cedar  trees.  There 
the  mesa  became  so  steep  that  Molly  and  Bill 
could  no  longer  pull  the  load.  The  Worrier 
had  brought  ten  gallons  of  water,  enough  for 
several  days,  and  the  "desert-proof"  horses  were 
turned  loose  to  find  their  way  back  to  the  spring 
at  the  mouth  of  the  canyon.  What  either  they 
or  the  cattle  ate  at  Wild  Rose  remained  a  pro- 
found mystery  to  us.  The  mesa  was  covered 
with  low,  dry  brush,  interspersed  occasionally 
with  bunches  of  yellow  grass.  We  could  see  the 
dark  backs  of  the  steers  like  spots  moving 
through  it,  but  it  looked  like  anything  rather 
than  a  spring  feeding-ground. 

Camp-in-the-Cedars  was  charming.  A  real 
tree  had  become  a  wonderful  object.  For  once 
there  was  plenty  of  wood  and  the  Worrier  kept 
himself  warm  chopping  and  carrying.  After  the 
feeble  little  fires  of  roots  and  twigs  to  which  we 
had  been  accustomed,  that  blazing,  crackling 
camp-fire  was  a  rich  luxury.  Dinner  was  a  ban- 
quet. Our  bed  was  laid  under  a  big  pinon  tree 
through  whose  tufts  of  fine  needles  the  enormous 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


stars  looked  down.  We  had  a  glimpse  through 
the  far-off  mouth  of  the  canyon  of  distant  peaks, 
vague  in  the  starlight.  The  wind  rose  and  fell 
softly  through  the  pines  and  cedars,  like  the 
breathing  of  the  great  white  mountain  beneath 
whose  side  we  slept. 

The  white  dawn  of  a  clear  day  filtered  through 
the  blue  darkness.  Before  the  sun  had  climbed 
over  the  ridge  we  were  started  on  our  long 
anticipated  adventure.  It  began  with  a  stiff 
scramble  up  the  first  buttressing  ridge,  then  a 
long  pull  to  the  crest  of  the  barrier  that  wails 
the  southern  side  of  Wild  Rose  Canyon.  The 
steep  inclines  of  gravelly  rock  were  varied  with 
ledges.  Soon  we  reached  the  snow,  so  hard  that 
steps  had  to  be  dug  in  it  with  much  scuffling  of 
hobnailed  shoes.  The  green  trees  growing  out  of 
the  white  snow  were  very  lovely,  and  also  useful 
to  hold  on  to.  When  they  were  far  apart  we  had 
some  exciting  moments  when  we  zigzagged  over 
the  smooth,  white  crust,  which  was  as  steep  as  a 
shingled  roof.  In  about  two  hours  we  reached 
the  top  of  the  ridge.  Until  then  we  had  faced 
the  white  slope,  working  too  hard  to  look  back 

[i86] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


very  often  at  the  basin  that  was  falling  away 
below  us.  Suddenly  we  stood  on  top.  The  world 
opened  beyond  into  an  immense  white  amphi- 
theater shut  in  by  snowy  peaks  with  the  pyramid 
of  Telescope,  visible  once  more,  at  the  far  side. 
After  the  hot,  dry  sands,  how  miraculous  seemed 
this  glittering  winter! 

We  pressed  on  toward  Baldy  along  the  ridge, 
which  proved  to  be  much  steeper  than  it  had 
looked.  It  was  covered  with  trees,  and  great 
patches  of  snow  grown  soft  now  in  the  sun. 
However,  by  keeping  a  little  below  the  crest  on 
the  southern  side  most  of  the  snow  could  be 
avoided.  There  the  ground  fell  so  precipitously 
from  the  ridge  to  the  canyon  below  that  only  an 
occasional  tree  grew  on  it,  and  we  had  an  unim- 
peded view  of  the  two  white  summits  and  the 
magnificent  sweep  of  snow  between  them. 

Noon  brought  us  to  a  little  saddle  north  of 
Baldy,  which  connects  it  with  another  rounded 
summit  of  the  same  name.  Here  were  no  trees 
and  the  snow  was  blown  off  clean.  With  what 
eagerness  we  panted  up  the  last  few  yards!  The 
mountain  climber  has  his  great  reward  when  he 

[■87] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


''looks  over."  That  is  his  own  peculiar  joy. 
He  toils  for  hours  with  the  ground  rising  before 
him  to  a  ridge  that  seems  to  cut  the  sky,  only  to 
find  a  higher  one  beyond.  He  surmounts  that, 
and  another  and  another,  until  at  last  he  gains 
the  highest  and  the  mountains  yield  their  secret. 
Breathlessly  we  stood  on  the  little  saddle.  We 
looked  down  into  Death  Valley  from  the  still 
height  to  which  we  had  looked  up  so  long.  The 
white  floor  shimmered  through  layers  of  heated 
air,  10,000  feet  below.  Again  the  valley  was 
different.  That  day  it  was  full  of  sky,  as  the 
Imperial  Valley  had  been  when  we  first  saw  it. 
Nothing  was  distinguishable  down  there,  it  was  a 
well  of  clear  blue.  The  Funeral  Mountains 
looked  like  hills.  Behind  them  the  jagged 
ranges  of  desert  mountains  spread  back  with  one 
tall,  snowy  peak  in  their  midst.  Mount  Charles- 
ton, sixty  miles  away  on  the  border  of  Nevada. 
Southward  on  the  saddle  the  mound  of  Baldy's 
summit  presented  its  snowy  side.  For  the  most 
part  the  snow  was  hard  enough  for  us  to  walk 
over  the  crust,  but  sometimes  we  floundered  in 
nearly  to  the  waist.    That  was  hard  work.     By 

[.88] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


one  o'clock  we  reached  the  top  where  the  snow 
was  blown  off,  leaving  bare  black  rocks.  It  was 
a  quiet  day  for  the  desert  and  especially  for  the 
mountains.  A  slight  wind  came  from  the  south ; 
the  sky  was  cloudless,  a  deep,  still  blue.  Mount 
Baldy  overlooks  all  the  country  in  a  complete 
panorama,  save  where  the  beautiful  pyramid  of 
Telescope  Peak  cuts  into  the  view.  The  horizon 
was  bounded  on  three  sides  by  snow  mountains. 
Mount  Charleston,  the  San  Bernadinos  and  the 
wonderful  Sierra  Nevada.  Between  these  white 
barriers  spread  the  desert,  deep  white  valleys, 
yellow  dry  lakes,  ranges  of  rose  and  blue  and 
dark-violet  mountains,  all  shining  in  the  incom- 
parable brightness  of  the  sun. 

Now,  at  last,  we  saw  the  famous  "H.  and  L." 
of  which  we  had  heard  so  much.  "You  see  the 
highest  and  the  lowest  points  in  the  United  States 
at  the  same  time,"  everybody  had  told  us.  From 
the  top  of  the  Panamints  we  could  see  Mount 
Whitney  towering  in  the  west,  while  in  the  east 
the  mountain  sides  fall  precipitously  into  Death 
Valley,  280  feet  below  sea  level.  There  must  be 
some   more   accessible   viewpoint  which   com- 

[189] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


mands  this  dramatic  spectacle,  for  it  is  not  likely 
that  our  informants  expected  us  to  climb  Mount 
Baldy. 

From  the  summit  of  Baldy  the  long  curving 
arete  that  had  looked  so  beautiful  from  Death 
Valley  on  one  side  and  from  Pinto  Peak  on  the 
other  led  over  to  Telescope  Peak.  It  was  no 
disappointment.  Sloping  sharply  down  from 
Baldy,  level  for  a  ways,  then  rising  again  toward 
the  white  pyramid,  it  extended  for  about  three 
miles,  precipitous  on  both  sides,  often  not  more 
than  ten  feet  wide  on  top.  The  exhilaration  of 
walking  thus  in  the  clear  air  high  above  the 
spread-out  world  is  always  a  boundless  joy;  on 
this  shining  wall  in  the  middle  of  the  desert  the 
joy  was  almost  unbearable.  The  great  plain  of 
the  world  was  clear  cut,  no  veiling  haze  softened 
its  distances,  it  flashed  and  sparkled,  full  of 
strong,  austere  lines  and  strong,  satisfying  con- 
trasts. Like  a  victorious  lover,  you  walk  the 
heights  of  your  conquest;  everything  to  the  great 
circle  of  the  horizon  is  yours;  by  right  of  pa- 
tience and  love  you  possess  it. 

If  we  could  only  be  like  the  three  old  cedars 
[190] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


that  have  withstood  the  hurricanes  on  the  ridge 
and  gaze  with  them  until  sunset,  through  the 
night  and  the  wonder  of  morning!  They  are 
so  gnarled  and  old,  and  so  calm.  Watchers,  they 
stand  on  the  summit  of  the  world,  and  they  might 
tell  us,  if  we  could  stay,  why  the  mountain-tops 
are  joyful.  Instead,  we  must  drag  around  these 
aching  bodies  clamoring  to  be  kept  w^arm  and 
to  be  fed,  never  letting  us  listen  long  enough. 
Already  the  sun  was  descending  toward  the  west, 
and  we  had  to  hasten  on  if  we  wanted  to  reach 
Telescope  Peak  and  get  back  to  fire  and  food 
before  the  cold  of  night. 

When  the  arete  began  to  rise  it  became  rapidly 
very  steep.  The  snow  became  harder  and  harder 
until  it  turned  to  ice.  The  lovely  pyramid,  now 
directly  overhead,  shone  blindingly  in  the  slant- 
ing sun.  The  only  possible  way  to  its  peak  was 
up  a  sharp  knife-edge,  from  which  both  sides  fell 
sheer  for  thousands  of  feet.  Was  it  all  solid  icei^ 
The  conviction  that  it  was  had  been  hinting 
defeat  to  each  of  us  for  the  last  half  hour  of  the 
climb,  but  no  one  cared  to  speak  of  that  possi- 
bility until  we  were  within  four  hundred  feet 

[191] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


of  the  top,  clinging  to  trees  and  slipping  badly. 
The  peak  rose  at  a  possible,  but  terrific  angle; 
the  trees  for  the  remainder  of  the  way  were  much 
too  far  apart  to  hold  on  to;  the  ice  was  perfectly 
smooth,  and  glistened  like  a  skating  rink  set  on 
edge.  No  amount  of  kicking  with  hobnailed 
shoes  could  make  a  foothold  on  it,  and  one  slip 
on  that  knife-edge  either  way  meant  a  slide  down 
the  ice-sheet  to  almost  sure  destruction.  You 
cannot  climb  such  an  ice  wall  without  either  an 
ax  or  a  rope;  with  either  one  we  would  have 
tried  it.  We  could  have  cut  steps  with  an  ax,  or 
we  might  have  been  able  to  lasso  the  trees  above 
with  a  long  rope,  and  pull  ourselves  up  by  it. 
So  lately  come  from  the  furnace  of  Death  Val- 
ley, how  should  we  suppose  that  we  would  need 
the  implements  of  an  Alpine  mountain-climber? 
Down,  down,  more  than  ii,ooo  feet,  lay  that 
white  pit  veiled  with  the  smoke  of  iridescent 
haze. 

The  Worrier,  who  professed  deep  scorn  of  all 
mountains  for  their  own  sakes,  looked  longingly 
at  the  smooth  peak.  It  fascinated  us  all  like  a 
hard,  glittering  jewel.    He  said  he  "hated  to  be 

[192] 


The  High  White  Peaks 


beat."  So  did  we  all  "hate  to  be  beat,"  but  we 
would  have  been  ungrateful  indeed  for  the  joy 
of  that  day  had  we  not  been  able  to  turn  back 
and  remain  thankful.  There  was  no  sense  of 
defeat  in  the  going-down. 

The  descent  was  easy  except  for  the  heart- 
breaking pull  up  Mount  Baldy  again.  His  sides 
were  far  too  straight  up  and  down  to  admit  of 
any  going  around  him.  On  the  summit  we  made 
a  concession  to  aching  bodies  by  taking  a  long 
rest  and  eating  what  was  left  of  the  bread  and 
cheese  and  the  everlasting  prunes.  The  Worrier 
had  long  since  dubbed  our  route  "The  Prune 
Stone  Trail."  We  jested  light-heartedly  about 
building  cairns  along  it  with  a  prune  stone 
carved  on  the  top  of  each,  and  insisted  that  we 
owned  a  half  interest  in  the  Prune  Stone  Mine, 
as  he  would  never  have  found  it  had  we  not 
dragged  him  up  Pinto.  Mountain-hater  as  he 
was  and  heat-loving  "desert-rat,"  he  genially  ad- 
mitted that,  snow  or  no  snow,  the  top  of  Baldy 
was  "fine."  As  we  sat  there  Death  Valley  turned 
a  dark,  deep,  luminous  blue.  We  could  see  the 
Avawatz  Mountains  by  Silver  Lake  and  the 

[193] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


notch  in  the  hills  where  the  blue  pool  of  Sara- 
toga cherishes  its  little  darting  fish.  The  slant- 
ing sunlight  was  resplendent  on  the  arete  and 
the  west  slopes  of  Telescope  Peak.  The  Worrier 
called  him  an  old  rascal;  but  we  were  glad  to 
leave  him  so,  with  his  white  robes  unsullied  by 
scrambling  feet.  His  image  would  remain  al- 
ways to  the  inward  eye  in  dull  days  and  difficult 
days,  a  reminder  of  how  beauty  watches  around 
the  world. 

When  the  sun  stood  just  above  the  wall  of  the 
Sierras  we  began  the  long  descent  down  the 
rounded,  snowy  side  of  Baldy  to  the  little  saddle, 
and  down  the  long,  steep  slope  and  the  little,  but- 
tress slope  where  the  cedar  trees  had  been  so 
lovely  in  the  snow.  Night  came  while  we  were 
still  going  down,  and  the  basin  of  Wild  Rose 
Canyon  was  a  violet  lake. 


[194] 


XI 

Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 

BREAKFAST  was  late  next  morning  like 
Sunday  breakfasts  in  houses.  Charlotte 
asked  if  it  was  Sunday.  No  one  knew 
what  day  it  was  in  the  f  ar-ofif  world,  but  we  pro- 
claimed it  Sunday  at  Wild  Rose.  It  was  a  true 
Sunday,  a  day  of  rest  after  hard  exertion,  a  still 
day  washed  clean  by  the  mighty  sun.  Immense 
and  still.  The  great  bowl  curved  tranquilly  to 
the  tranquil  hills,  the  cedars  and  piiions  along 
its  edge  glistened  like  little  bright  fingers  point- 
ing at  the  sky. 

During  the  middle  of  the  day  the  sun  was  hot, 
in  the  morning  and  the  evening  the  big  fire 
blazed.  Camp-in-the-Cedars  was  lovely  enough 
to  stay  in  forever,  but  shortly  after  noon  the  Wor- 
rier announced  that  he  must  find  the  charcoal- 
kilns,  he  could  not  "be  beat"  by  them.  The  little 
trees  were  so  beguiling,  the  tranquil  brightness 

[195] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


of  the  mesa  so  inviting,  that  we  followed  him, 
buoyed  up  by  the  cold,  clear  air.  We  wandered 
along  the  base  of  Baldy  to  where  a  small,  purple 
mountain  jutted  into  the  great  basin.  Around 
that  we  went,  leisurely  picking  our  way  over  the 
rough  ground  until  at  the  extreme  northern  end 
of  the  bowl  we  found  an  attenuated  wraith  of  a 
road  leading  up  into  a  heavily  wooded  canyon. 
A  road  must  once  have  been  the  way  to  some- 
where, and  we  followed  it,  climbing  steeply  for 
nearly  a  mile.  It  brought  us  to  a  small,  level 
spot  where,  made  of  rocks  like  the  mountains 
and  indistinguishable  until  we  were  right  on 
them,  stood  seven  immense  charcoal-kilns  like 
a  row  of  giant  beehives.  They  were  so  big  that 
we  could  walk  upright  through  their  doorways, 
that  looked  like  arched  openings  in  their  sides. 
Old  Tom  Adams  had  said  that  they  were  used 
in  the  seventies  to  make  fuel  of  the  cedars  and 
pifions,  to  be  hauled  thirty  miles  to  the  smelter 
at  a  lead  mine.  They  had  been  deserted  so  long 
that  the  camp  rubbish  had  disappeared  from 
around  them  and  they  merged  into  their  back- 
ground, become  again  a  part  of  Nature  herself. 

[196] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


What  strenuous  endeavor  they  denoted  I 
Everywhere  men  have  left  their  footprints  on 
the  Mojave,  sojourners  always,  never  inhab- 
itants. The  seven  kilns  were  the  most  impres- 
sive testimony  of  brief  possession  that  we  saw, 
more  impressive  even  than  the  twenty-eight- 
mile-long  trench  that  brought  the  water  to 
Skidoo.  We  had  seen  it  from  there  cross- 
ing high  ridges;  in  the  great  bowl  of  Wild 
Rose  it  was  clearly  marked,  going  from  side  to 
side  and  vanishing  up  the  first  ridge  which  we 
had  climbed  to  Baldy.  The  cost  and  labor  of 
making  it  must  have  been  immense.  Mojave 
was  already  breaking  down  the  edges  preparing 
to  brush  it  away,  but  it  will  be  a  long  time 
before  she  can  obliterate  those  kilns.  They 
will  still  be  eloquent  in  that  remote  fastness 
long  after  Keane  Wonder  and  Ryolite  are 
gone. 

Behind  the  kilns  a  dim  path  climbed  the  moun- 
tain-side to  a  little,  secret  spring,  an  oval  rock 
basin  not  more  than  five  feet  long  and  so  deftly 
hidden  that  we  wondered  what  prospector  first 
had  the  joy  of  finding  it.    From  the  elevation  of 

[197] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


the  spring  we  could  look  along  the  length  of 
Wild  Rose  Canyon,  where  the  sagebrush 
smoothed  to  a  blue  and  green  and  purple  sea, 
and  through  its  narrow  opening  to  the  white 
serenity  of  Mount  Whitney.  Thus  framed  the 
white  peak  seemed  to  float  in  the  blue  sky.  Very 
swiftly  Mojave  brushes  men  ofif,  but  always  with 
a  fine  gesture.  From  the  midst  of  her  most 
obliterating  desolations  she  never  fails  to  point 
at  some  far-off  shining. 

Too  late  we  learned  that  the  little  spring  at 
the  head  of  the  canyon  would  have  been  the 
place  for  our  camp.  Not  only  would  we  have 
had  the  delight  of  its  cold,  pure  water,  but  the 
ascent  of  Mount  Baldy  looked  shorter  and  easier 
from  there.  Perhaps  we  each  cherished  the  hope 
of  moving  up  next  day  and  trying  once  more  to 
scale  the  glittering  ice-wall  with  the  help  of 
our  wood-chopper's  ax  and  the  rope  from  the 
wagon;  but  we  never  discussed  the  idea  for  that 
night  the  dreaded  storm  crept  over  the  moun- 
tains. It  came  stealthily  on  padded  feet,  putting 
out  the  stars.  At  dawn  big  wet  snowflakes  gently 
sifting  through  the  still  air  awoke  us. 

[198] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


During  the  day  the  storm  increased.  The 
wind  arose  and  blew  in  gusts  seemingly  from 
every  direction.  Fortunately  the  trees  afforded 
plenty  of  big  wood,  so  we  were  able  to  keep  a 
roaring  fire,  though  the  heavily-falling,  wet 
snow  sometimes  threatened  to  put  it  out.  It 
snowed  so  fast  that  we  were  shut  in  by  white 
walls  not  more  than  twenty  feet  away.  We 
pitched  our  tent  with  the  opening  toward  the 
fire  and  tried  to  get  some  shelter  in  it  while  the 
Worrier  hunted  the  horses.  The  tent  was  the 
only  serious  mistake  in  the  outfit.  It  was  a  light, 
waterproof  silk  tent  with  a  pole  up  the  middle. 
We  had  expected  to  use  it  as  a  shelter  from  the 
wind  and  had  tried  once  before  at  Emigrant 
Springs.  On  that  occasion  its  light-weight  ma- 
terial had  flapped  and  rattled  in  the  blast  until 
we  were  glad  to  creep  outside  and  sleep  under 
the  edge  of  a  rock.  Before  morning  it  blew 
down.  The  only  practical  tent  for  the  desert  is 
a  very  low  one,  like  a  pup-tent,  made  of  heavy 
canvas,  with  extra  long  pegs  that  must  be  driven 
deep  and  buried  in  the  sand.  During  the  eter- 
nity of  snowstorm  in  which  Charlotte  and   I 

[199] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


waited  for  Molly  and  Bill,  we  alternated  be- 
tween holding  up  the  pole  in  the  gusts  of  wind 
and  rushing  out  between  them  to  drive  in  the 
pegs  with  the  ax.  This,  and  the  necessity  of 
constantly  building  up  the  fire,  kept  us  wet  and 
cold  all  day,  for  the  snow  was  not  the  dry,  whirl- 
ing snow  of  really  cold  climates,  but  was  as  wet 
as  a  heavy  rain.  It  clung  so  we  could  not  shake 
it  off  and  melted  on  our  clothes.  The  Worrier 
did  not  retrieve  Molly  and  Bill  until  four 
o'clock.  It  was  late  to  move,  but  the  storm 
showed  no  sign  of  abatement  and  we  remem- 
bered with  growing  affection  the  shack  at  the 
entrance  to  the  canyon.  Hastily  packing  in  the 
white  downpour  that  hissed  through  the  air,  we 
left  Camp-in-the-Cedars. 

As  soon  as  we  had  descended  a  little  way  into 
the  basin  the  snow  ceased,  but  a  white  cloud  con- 
tinued to  hang  over  the  place  where  our  charm- 
ing camp  had  been.  During  the  remainder  of 
the  day  and  throughout  the  night  heavy  clouds 
veiled  all  the  mountains,  occasionally  dropping 
flurries  of  snow  around  us.  An  icy  wind  rushed 
down  the  canyon.    When  we  reached  the  shack 

[200] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


it  seemed  palatial.  We  cleared  out  the  rubbish 
by  throwing  it  down  the  hill  in  front  of  the  door, 
the  approved  way  of  cleaning  up  on  the  desert. 
When  there  are  too  many  cans  you  throw  them 
behind  the  bushes,  and  we  had  learned  to  do  it 
with  great  vigor  and  accuracy  of  aim.  Much 
to  the  Worrier's  amusement  we  scrubbed  the 
table  and  tried  to  wipe  off  the  cracked,  rusty 
stove  set  up  on  three  empty  gasoline  tins.  That 
stove  was  a  marvel  in  the  art  of  consuming  much 
fuel  without  emitting  any  heat.  We  took  turns 
huddling  close  to  it.  The  walls  sheltered  us 
from  the  wind,  but  as  far  as  the  stove  was  con- 
cerned we  might  almost  as  well  have  been  out- 
doors. 

After  supper  we  had  to  reckon  with  the  dun- 
geon that  was  the  bedroom.  The  Worrier  rec- 
ommended it  highly,  but  we  viewed  it  with  a 
certain  awful  apprehension.  We  had  a  devil's 
choice  between  that  and  the  frigid  outdoors  that 
kept  beating  on  the  shack  with  gusts  of  wind. 
We  made  the  mistake  of  choosing  the  dungeon. 
When  the  candle  was  blown  out  fear  crouched  in 
the  blackness.    All  the  tales  we  had  ever  read  of 

[201] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


prisoners  in  damp  cellars  assailed  us — horrors, 
tortures,  black  holes.  The  terrors  of  these  man- 
made  fears  in  this  shut-in,  man-made  place  were 
far  worse  than  the  wild  outdoors.  Presently 
little  scratchings  and  gnawings  apprised  us  that 
we  were  not  alone.  Unbearable  then  was  the 
walled  darkness.  We  gathered  up  the  bed  and 
went  outside,  stepping  carefully  over  the  Wor- 
rier who,  forever  faithful,  was  sleeping  across 
the  door. 

The  clean  outdoors!  Let  it  snow,  let  it  hail, 
let  the  water  run  down  the  mountain  and  seep 
through  the  bed,  let  the  wind  tear  at  the  pon- 
chos! It  was  nothing  compared  to  being  shut 
up  in  a  dark  place.  About  midnight  we  were 
suddenly  struck  awake  by  a  terrific  din.  After 
the  first  tense  moment  we  recognized  it  as  coy- 
otes howling  in  the  canyon.  That  was  nothing 
either  compared  to  vague  little  scratchings  and 
gnawings  in  an  eight-by-ten  shack. 

Next  day  the  storm  continued,  with  clear 
intervals  during  which  we  rushed  out  to  spread 
our  clothes  and  blankets  in  the  sun  that  thirstily 
drank  up  the  snow  at  the  bases  of  the  mountains. 

[202] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


''Scotty"  beguiled  the  hours  and  the  weird  tales 
of  Lord  Dunsany,  read  aloud  beside  the  cracked 
stove,  never  had  a  more  appropriate  setting.  All 
around  the  mountains  were  white  except  where 
some  insistently  black  rock  heaved  out.  Clouds 
hurried  across  the  sky  like  Indians  galloping  on 
the  war-path,  the  wind  screaming  around  the 
rocks  was  their  war-whoop.  In  the  moments  of 
peace  between  their  raids  huge  giants  of  cloud 
shook  their  fists  at  us  over  the  walls.  The  silence 
of  Mojave  was  torn  to  tatters.  Yet,  somehow, 
we  still  felt  it.  Just  as  the  wild  tales  we  read 
intimated  a  stillness  behind,  so  the  tumult  was  a 
ripple  on  indomitable  peace.  You  have  seen  a 
little  whirlwind  plow  a  furrow  through  the 
water  of  some  glassy  lake,  making  quite  a  bit  of 
a  tumult,  but  leaving  undisturbed  the  tranquil- 
lity of  the  surface  beyond  its  narrow  path. 
Though  between  the  walls  of  the  canyon  where 
we  camped  we  could  not  see  the  still  surfaces, 
we  sensed  them.  The  storm  was  an  incident. 
Mojave  took  it  and  made  a  strong  song. 

Wild  Rose  Canyon  was  the  furthest  point  of 
our  journey;  from  the  old  shack  the  going  home 

[203] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


began.  The  sun  rose  brilliantly  on  the  follow- 
ing morning  and  deceived  us  into  starting  back 
to  Emigrant  Springs.  As  soon  as  we  had 
left  the  narrow  canyon  and  could  once  more  see 
the  expanse  of  the  sky,  we  knew  that  the  storm 
was  by  no  means  over.  We  even  debated  return- 
ing to  our  palace,  cracked  stove,  black  hole,  and 
all;  but  when  you  have  broken  camp,  found  the 
horses,  packed  up,  and  started,  a  two-hour-long 
process,  you  will  risk  almost  anything  rather 
than  turn  back.  There  were  compensations,  too, 
even  for  the  wind  which  shortly  came  to  life 
again  and  thrust  its  knife  to  our  hearts.  The 
sky  was  a  magnificent  spectacle.  It  was  not 
gray,  nor  overcast,  nor  brooding,  but  full  of 
torn-up,  piled-up,  tumultuous  clouds,  a  fitting 
canopy  for  the  country  beneath  it.  The 
top  of  Emigrant  Pass  is  a  big  mesa  sur- 
rounded by  all  kinds  of  mountains  from  the 
broken,  battered  buttresses  and  steep  snow- 
peaks  of  the  Panamints  to  smooth,  bare,  rounded 
hills  folded  over  each  other  and  dimpled  like 
upholstered  sofas.  In  bursts  of  sunshine  the 
shadows   of   the   clouds   raced   over   them   all, 

[204] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 

snatching  at  each  other  and  getting  mixed  up  in 
the  canyons.  Sometimes  a  cloud  spilled  out  its 
contents  and  for  a  while  obliterated  one  of  them. 
Toward  noon  the  clouds  made  a  concerted  attack 
on  the  sun,  calling  up  new  cohorts  until  at  last 
they  succeeded  in  covering  him  entirely  and 
keeping  him  covered.  Then  a  great  change  fell 
upon  Mojave.  She  became  forlorn,  her  bright 
colors  faded  into  gray.  The  brush  shivered  in 
the  wind  and  made  a  cold,  crackling  sound.  A 
few  immense  Joshua  palms  scattered  over  the 
mesa  waved  their  grotesque  arms  like  monsters 
in  pain.  The  wind  whistled  through  their  stifif, 
spiky  leaves.  They  were  in  bloom  with  a  heavy 
mass  of  waxy  white  flowers  on  the  end  of  each 
branch.  The  sun  had  polished  the  flowers,  tip- 
ping every  branch  with  a  silver  ball ;  now  they 
stuck  up  into  the  lead-colored  sky,  dull,  lead- 
colored  things. 

All  the  familiar  places  that  had  been  drenched 
with  sunshine,  brilliant  with  color,  almost  as 
magical  sometimes  as  the  burning  sands  them- 
selves, now  appeared  in  this  sad,  gray  mood. 
After  leaving  the  top  of  the  pass  we  crossed  a 

[205] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


large,  high  plateau  known  as  the  Harrisburg 
Flat.  On  the  way  over  to  Wild  Rose  it  had  been 
still  and  hot,  the  openings  between  the  moun- 
tains had  hinted  at  the  illusions  of  Death  Valley 
behind  them;  now  a  cloud  full  of  wind  and  snow 
rolled  up  out  of  the  narrow  opening  of  Emigrant 
Canyon.  Storms  were  all  around  us,  but  until 
that  moment  we  had  hoped  that  we  might 
escape.  There  was  no  escape.  The  Har- 
risburg Flat  became  a  white,  whirling  fury. 
The  wind  that  smote  us  was  like  a  solid, 
moving  wall.  The  cloud  was  not  made  of  snow, 
but  of  ice,  a  fine  hail  that  cut  our  faces.  It  was 
so  dense  that  we  could  not  sec  ten  feet  in  front 
of  the  wagon.  We  had  some  difficulty  in  making 
Molly  and  Bill  face  it,  but  it  was  necessary  to 
go  on.  All  day  the  icy  wind  had  been  pressing 
upon  us,  now  it  was  so  cold  that  we  felt  we 
could  not  withstand  it  long.  Fortunately  the 
sheltering  walls  of  the  canyon  were  not  far,  but 
the  half  hour  during  which  we  struggled  toward 
them  seemed  an  eternity.  The  Worrier  shouted 
at  the  laboring  horses  and  for  the  first  time  when 
he  knew  that  we  could  hear  him,  he  cursed. 

[206] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


By  the  time  we  reached  the  canyon  the  hail 
had  stopped  but  the  terrible  wind  continued.  It 
seemed  as  though  it  would  rip  the  bushes  out  of 
the  ground.  In  place  of  the  ice,  fine  particles  of 
sand  assailed  us — had  the  wash  not  been  thor- 
oughly wet  we  would  have  had  more  of  it.  It 
must  have  rained  violently  in  the  canyon,  or  els:: 
in  the  dusk  we  missed  the  particular  route  among 
the  rocks  by  which  we  had  come  up,  for  the  way 
was  so  washed  out  that  the  Worrier  could  hardly 
pilot  the  load. 

Every  bit  of  energy  we  had  was  centered  on 
reaching  the  ruined  shack  at  Emigrant  Springs. 
When  we  were  able  to  say  anything  at  all 
we  speculated  about  how  dirty  it  might  be 
and  whether  or  not  there  was  a  stove  in  it.  The 
dirt  was  a  certainty,  but  nobody  could  remem- 
ber about  the  stove,  as  we  had  avoided  the 
shack  when  we  were  there  before.  After  a 
freezing  eternity  we  came  around  the  last  bend 
of  the  canyon.  Home  was  in  sight,  and  our 
hope  perished  for  smoke  was  coming  out  of 
the  chimney!  Not  only  was  there  a  stove,  but 
there  was  a  man  snugly  camping  beside  it,  an 

[207] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


unknown  man,  a  usurper,  a  robber!    We  were 
full  of  angry,  helpless  indignation. 

"If  it's  Tom  Adams,"  the  Worrier  snapped, 
"we'll  throw  him  out." 

But  it  was  not  Tom  Adams.  It  was  another 
old-timer,  an  old  man,  who  wandered  cease- 
lessly to  and  fro  over  the  desert.  He  was  a  gentle 
soul,  but  we  were  in  no  mood  to  appreciate  that 
then.  Of  course  he  ofifered  to  move  out  of  the 
shack  when  he  saw  "ladies"  coming  on  such  a 
bitter  night,  and  equally  of  course  we  could  not 
allow  it.  If  Charlotte  and  I  chose  to  invade 
the  wilderness  we  must  take  the  chances  of  the 
wilderness  as  other  people  did.  Our  pride  was 
involved,  but  we  had  to  refuse  very  summarily, 
even  rudely,  before  the  old  man  would  accept 
our  objection.  Then  he  retired  into  the  shack 
with  hurt  dignity,  while  we  pulled  down  some 
more  of  the  corral  fence  to  make  a  blazing  fire. 
We  solaced  ourselves  with  the  belief  that  the 
outdoors  was  better  than  the  shack  anyway,  as 
it  had  been  better  than  the  black  hole.  In  the 
course  of  time  we  were  warm  again  and  man- 
aged to  keep  warm  through  the  night. 

[208] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


In  the  morning  the  innocent  usurper  sent  us, 
via  the  Worrier,  a  pan  of  hot  biscuits,  a  most 
welcome  and  delicious  gift.  Charlotte  and  I 
called  on  him  later  to  thank  him  and  make 
amends  if  we  could.  He  entertained  us  for  two 
hours  with  the  story  of  his  travels,  but  he  would 
not  accept  our  invitation  to  dinner,  saying  that 
he  wasn't  used  to  "dining  with  ladies."  We  sin- 
cerely hope  it  was  not  a  sarcasm.  The  question 
which  the  possession  of  the  shack  raised  is  rather 
a  difficult  one.  Was  our  pride  worth  more  than 
the  true  chivalry  of  a  kindly  soul?  To  us  it  was, 
to  him  it  was  not. 

The  wind  continued  to  blow  with  violence  for 
several  days,  though  we  had  no  more  rain  nor 
snow.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  the  desert  has  been 
torn  to  its  rough  harshness.  That  steady-blow- 
ing wind  alone  could  wear  the  mountains  to  their 
jagged  outlines,  crumbling  the  softer  rock  down 
to  fill  the  valleys.  It  picks  up  the  sand  and  uses 
it  to  grind  the  mountains  smooth.  It  piles  it 
against  the  cliffs  to  make  new  foothills  and  hol- 
lows it  out  to  make  new  canyons.  It  drives  the 
rain  against  the  mountains  to  rush  down,  rolling 

[209] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


rocks  along  the  gorges  and  digging  the  deep 
trenches  across  the  mesas.  Where  no  network  of 
roots  holds  a  surface  soil  wind  and  rain  work 
rapidly.  On  the  homeward  journey  from  Wild 
Rose  we  understood  the  cut-up  mesas  and  the 
gouged-out  canyons  better. 

Down  in  the  Mesquite  Valley,  where  we  took 
the  sandy  road  along  the  edge  of  the  marsh  in- 
stead of  the  rocky  one  by  which  we  had  come 
because  Bill  had  lost  a  shoe,  w^e  saw  what  the 
wind  can  do  with  sand.  In  the  afternoon  we 
reached  the  foot  of  the  mesa  that  leads  from 
Emigrant  Canyon  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley 
and  were  at  the  beginning  of  ''Old  Johnnie's" 
sand-dunes.  It  had  been  a  sparkling  day  with  a 
clear  sky,  but  the  wind  was  still  blowing.  The 
Mesquite  Valley  was  as  hot  as  we  remembered 
it,  but,  after  the  ice-cloud  on  the  Harrisburg 
Flat  only  two  days  before,  it  seemed  a  delicious 
hotness.  With  the  assurance  of  seasoned  trav- 
elers able  to  make  a  dry  camp  an5rwhere,  Char- 
lotte and  I  insisted  on  stopping  there  for  the 
night.  Molly  and  Bill  would  take  four  hours  to 
make  the  nine  miles  of  deep  sand  to  Salt  Creek, 

[210] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


and  we  always  hated  to  make  camp  in  the  dark. 
The  Worrier  wanted  to  go  on.  He  said  he  had  a 
hunch  that  we  ought  to,  but  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  persuaded.  We  should  have  heeded  that 
hunch  of  an  old-timer. 

Hardly  had  we  unpacked  the  wagon  and  made 
a  fireplace  before  we  noticed  that  the  wind  was 
increasing.  Little  whirligigs  of  sand  began  to 
run  across  the  valley.  Soon  they  were  charging 
at  us  down  the  mesa.  First  they  came  singly, 
then  merged  into  a  cloud  of  sand  that  rattled 
against  the  pots  and  the  wagon.  Luckily  for  us 
the  wind  was  blowing  from  the  mountains  over 
the  mesa  where  there  was  comparatively  little 
sand  to  pick  up,  for  had  it  been  coming  across 
the  dunes  we  would  have  been  buried  alive.  Of 
course  it  was  impossible  to  cook;  in  a  very  few 
minutes  it  was  impossible  to  do  anything  but 
crouch  in  the  lea  of  the  sand-heap  around  the 
roots  of  the  biggest  mesquite.  The  Worrier 
seemed  to  shrink  up  and  draw  in  his  head  like  a 
turtle.  He  shouted  something  at  us,  of  which 
we  could  only  hear  the  word  *'hunch."  The  air 
was  full  of  a  rushing,  hissing  sound. 

[2.1] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


Charlotte  and  I  covered  ourselves  with  the 
ponchos,  drawing  them  over  our  heads  when 
the  sand  came  hurtling  through  the  top  of  the 
Mesquite.  Molly  and  Bill  huddled  close  to- 
gether about  fifty  feet  away  with  their  backs  to 
the  blast,  and  much  of  the  time  the  sand  was 
so  dense  that  we  could  not  see  them.  The  Wor- 
rier also  was  lost  in  the  yellow  cloud.  The  sand 
was  very  fine  and,  in  spite  of  the  ponchos,  sifted 
into  our  hair  and  ears  and  clothes.  It  gritted  in 
our  teeth  so  we  felt  as  though  we  were  eating  it. 
We  could  see  it  piling  up  around  the  next  mes- 
quite, and  could  imagine  it  whirling  through  the 
valley  over  the  tops  of  "Old  Johnnie's"  dunes. 

Often  the  wind  goes  down  at  sunset,  but  that 
day  the  sun  sank  invisibly  and  the  fury  increased. 
We  felt  a  queer  excitement  not  unmixed  with 
fear.  Thus,  only  a  hundred  times  worse,  must 
the  sand  blow  over  the  vast  Sahara  Desert  while 
the  Arabs  cover  their  heads,  calling  on  Allah. 
When  the  solid  ground  itself  arises  there  is  no 
help  but  Allah. 

After  sunset  the  Worrier  emerged  again  from 
the  flying  yellow  mass.     His  shirt  was  blown 

[212] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


tight  to  him  and  the  loose  sleeves  whipped  in 
the  wind.  He  leaned  against  it  bending  forward. 
He  shouted  that  we  might  possibly  get  some 
shelter  by  continuing  along  the  road  toward  Salt 
Creek,  where  it  winds  further  around  the  side 
of  Sheep  Mountain.  He  advised  us  to  move, 
because  if  the  storm  continued  he  could  not  keep 
Molly  and  Bill. 

"Tie  them  up!"  we  yelled. 

"Can't.  Go  crazy."  Then,  as  we  did  not 
move,  his  voice  rose  peremptorily: 

"Come  on!    If  it  gets  worse  we  can't  go." 

We  had  disregarded  his  first  hunch;  now,  if 
he  had  another,  far  be  it  from  us  to  raise  diffi- 
culties, though  we  could  hardly  see  how  it  was 
possible  to  travel  even  then.  Charlotte  and  I 
staggered  up  from  the  mesquite  and  all  three  of 
us  packed  as  speedily  as  we  could.  It  was  a 
disorderly  packing,  as  we  could  scarcely  stand 
before  the  wind,  and  were  almost  blinded  by  the 
sand.  Molly  and  Bill  were  wild  with  excite- 
ment. I  remember  vividly  bracing  myself 
against  the  wall  of  wind,  holding  on  to  Molly, 
who  objected  to  backing  around  to  the  wagon- 

[213] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


pole,  unable  to  open  my  eyes  and  hardly  able  to 
breathe. 

We  all  piled  into  the  wagon.  The  excited 
horses  were  willing  to  travel  with  their  backs  to 
the  wind.  There  was  a  track  to  follow,  but  its 
edges  were  already  rounding  full  of  sand.  If 
the  storm  should  continue  long  enough  it  would 
be  smoothed  out. 

The  Worrier's  hope  was  justified,  for  at  the 
end  of  three  or  four  miles  the  wind  seemed  much 
less  furious.  We  were  among  the  dunes  and 
found  a  fairly  quiet  little  gully  full  of  deep  sand 
as  fine  and  soft  as  the  sand  on  a  beach.  Some- 
thing in  the  set  of  the  wind  through  the  moun- 
tains left  this  oasis  of  peace.  We  were  even  able 
to  cook  the  long-delayed  dinner.  We  did  it  by 
moonlight,  slowly  and  carefully  handling  things 
and  keeping  them  covered  as  much  as  possible, 
like  having  a  picnic  on  a  windy  seashore. 

The  Worrier  suggested  that  we  climb  to  the 
top  of  the  dune  which  partially  sheltered  us,  if 
we  wanted  to  see  what  a  sandstorm  looked  like. 
We  did  so.  From  that  vantage  point  of  com- 
parative calm  we  saw  the  whole  Mesquite  Val- 

[214] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 

ley  filled  with  a  dense  yellow  cloud  that  com- 
pletely shut  out  the  surrounding  mountains,  ris- 
ing higher  than  they,  swirling  at  the  top  like 
smoke  ascending  into  the  dark  night  sky. 

In  the  morning  we  climbed  the  dune  again 
and  looked  across  over  the  others.  The  blowing 
sand  was  less  dense  and  we  could  see  them  all. 
''Old  Johnnie"  had  been  right,  they  were  a  hun- 
dred feet  high.  Their  shapes  were  very  beau- 
tiful, with  knife-edge  tops  ridged  in  pure,  clean 
lines  from  which  fringes  of  fine  sand  blew  up 
like  the  wind-tossed  manes  of  white  horses.  The 
masses  and  outlines  of  the  dunes  suggested  Egyp- 
tian architecture;  the  pyramids  and  the  crouch- 
ing sphinx  were  there.  Sand  dunes  must  have 
been  familiar  to  the  Egyptians  dwelling  beside 
the  Sahara.  What  is  the  huge  sphinx,  brooding 
and  massive,  gazing  with  strong  eyes  across  the 
emptiness,  but  an  interpretation  of  the  desert 
carved  in  stone? 

We  reached  Salt  Creek  early  and  spent  the 
rest  of  the  day  there.  The  wind  continued  to 
blow,  the  sand  still  swirled  ofif  the  dunes,  and 
the  yellow  dust-cloud  still  obscured  the  moun- 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


tains;  but  we  were  in  the  shelter  of  Tucki  and 
the  ground  was  so  stony  that  we  were  not  much 
troubled  by  the  migrating  sand.  Once  more 
Charlotte  and  I  climbed  the  ridge  from  which 
we  had  watched  the  Worrier's  remarkable  hunt- 
ing. The  whole  big  basin  of  Death  Valley  be- 
tween its  high  walls  of  rock  was  blurred  with 
dust,  clouds  of  sand  with  wind-frayed  edges  rose 
into  the  sky,  not  a  gleam  of  radiance  showed 
through.  The  green  and  white  snake  of  Salt 
Creek  coiled  sullenly  among  the  sulphur-colored 
hills.  Only  the  blue  eye  was  bright,  poisonous, 
unwinking.  The  fair  water  that  was  too  pol- 
luted for  human  drinking  seemed  to  mock  us. 
We  waited  for  the  enchanter  to  come  at  sunset, 
but  as  the  day  merged  into  evening  the  scene  be- 
came inexpressibly  dreadful. 

Suddenly  Charlotte  arose  from  the  rock  on 
which  we  were  sitting. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  whispered,  and  without  fur- 
ther comment  we  hurried  back  to  camp  and 
made  the  Worrier  collect  enough  wood  from  the 
swamp  for  a  truly  cheerful  fire. 

The  following  day  we  traveled  once  more  up 

[216] 


Snowstorm  and  Sandstorm 


the  long,  northern  mesa  of  Death  Valley,  but  by 
a  different  route  from  that  by  which  we  had 
descended.  This  way  was  shorter,  avoiding  the 
long  pull  across  the  valley,  though  it  was  rockier, 
steeper,  and  cut  by  more  islands  of  hills  to  cross 
or  go  around  than  the  other.  In  many  places 
the  road  vanished  utterly,  and  only  a  "desert- 
rat"  could  have  piloted  a  wagon  safely  to  its  des- 
tination over  that  maze  of  ridges  and  gullies. 

The  day  was  fine.  At  last  the  wind  had  died 
down  and  the  dust-clouds  were  slowly  subsiding. 
Both  Death  Valley  and  the  Mesquite  Valley 
were  veiled  in  heavy  haze,  but  the  brightness  of 
their  changing  color  now  shimmered  through. 
All  day  the  white  blaze  of  the  sun  was  around 
us  and  the  silence,  after  a  week  of  tumultuous 
wind,  was  a  mighty  dreaming.  It  was  the  living 
silence  which  we  had  first  known  on  the  night 
when  we  wandered  away  from  Silver  Lake,  the 
silence  in  which  the  earth  moves.  The  moun- 
tains dwelt  in  it  majestically.  Mojave  was 
again  making  her  fine  gesture,  unconscious  of 
the  discomforts  and  terrors  of  small  living  things. 
Her  pointing  at  the  far-off  shining  is  always  a 

[217] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


conquest  of  grimness,  as  though  sorrow  were  a 
stepping-stone  to  beauty. 

By  the  out-jutting  cliff  of  Daylight  Pass,  from 
which  we  had  first  beheld  Death  Valley,  we 
made  a  long  stop.  Familiarity  had  only  en- 
hanced its  splendor.  With  different  eyes  we  saw 
the  shining  floor,  the  sad  Funeral  Mountains, 
the  calm,  white  curves  of  the  high  Panamints. 
What  had  been  a  picture  was  now  a  living  ex- 
perience. The  rose  and  silver  shifting  over  the 
white  valley-floor  had  new  meaning.  We 
knew  that  floor,  we  knew  the  feel  of  it,  and 
its  ever-changing  beauty  was  a  miracle.  We 
were  justified  in  the  pilgrimage,  for  only  by 
going  thus  to  the  White  Heart,  making  stones 
and  brush  and  jagged  rocks  our  companions,  de- 
pending on  the  springs  to  keep  us  alive  and  the 
roots  of  the  greasewood  to  warm  us,  could  we 
have  known  what  a  miracle  it  was.  The  words 
''terror"  and  "beauty"  which  we  had  spoken  dur- 
ing the  first  look  down  into  the  valley  and  had 
thought  that  we  understood,  had  real  content 
now.  We  knew  that  they  belonged  together  and 
that  one  covered  the  other  and  changed  its 
meaning. 

[218] 


XII 

The  End  of  the  Adventure 

IT  was  April  when  we  returned  to  Silver 
Lake.  Spring  was  walking  on  the  desert. 
The  sand  and  the  stony  mesas  were  decked 
with  flowers.  Great  patches  of  California-pop- 
pies bent  on  hairlike,  invisible  stems  before  the 
wind,  little  floating  golden  cups.  Blue  lupins, 
like  spires  of  larkspur,  glistened  in  the  sun.  A 
four-petaled,  waxy  flower  with  a  shining,  satiny 
texture  spread  in  masses  on  the  sand.  Daisies 
with  yellow  centers  and  lavender  petals  clustered 
beside  rocks.  A  little  plant  like  the  beginnings 
of  a  wild  rose  tossed  tiny  pink  balloons  in  the 
air.  The  shoots  of  the  purple  verbena  ran  over 
the  ground,  sending  up  little  stems  to  hold  its 
many-floretted  crowns.  Even  the  thorny  cactus 
bloomed  with  a  crimson,  poppy-shaped  flower. 
When  we  went  on  excursions  to  the  mountains 
the  bayonet-leaves  of  the  yucca  guarded  tall 

[219] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


spikes  which  bore  aloft  white,  shining  blos- 
soms, and  the  grotesque  branches  of  the  Joshua 
palms  were  tipped  with  brightness  like  lighted 
candles.  Everjrvvhere  high  clumps  of  yellow 
coreopsis  rivaled  the  sun.  Beyond  the  dry  lake 
at  the  base  of  the  sand-ridge  which  had  been  so 
terrifying  on  our  first  drive  through  the  desert 
stood  stately  Easter  lilies  hung  with  great  white 
bells.  Easter  morning  we  went  over  there  and 
gathered  armfuls  for  our  kind  German  hosts. 
Their  house  and  ours  were  abloom  during  our 
stay,  for  we  could  no  more  resist  gathering  these 
amazing  flowers  than  we  could  resist  picking  up 
the  many-colored  stones.  Every  dish  and  bowl 
was  full  and  tin  cans  rescued  from  the  dump 
were  promoted  to  be  vases. 

The  gallant  little  flowers  in  such  a  stern  envi- 
ronment! They  were  touchingly  lovely,  bloom- 
ing wherever  they  had  the  smallest  chance  and 
looking  trustingly  at  the  sun.  It  was  as  though 
we  had  never  seen  flowers  before,  never  really 
seen  them. 

Indeed,  until  we  went  on  pilgrimage  to  the 
White  Heart,  we  had  never  seen  the  outdoors, 

[220] 


The  End  of  the  Adventure 

never  really  seen  it.  How  could  we  not  see  it 
when  the  outdoors  is  always  on  the  doorstep? 
We  had  thought  we  saw  it,  we  had  talked  about 
it,  a  place  for  pleasant  dalliance  when  work  in- 
side the  walls  was  done,  or  a  sort  of  glorified 
gymnasium  to  make  the  blood  race  and  the  heart 
beat  faster.  The  outdoors  is  the  awe-full,  mag- 
nificent universe  moving  along,  inexpressibly 
fearful  and  beautiful! 

And  we  might  have  seen  it  anywhere!  The 
drama  is  always  going  on  with  its  terror  and 
beauty.  The  gentlest  countryside  is  a  part  of  it. 
Everywhere  the  grim  touches  hands  with  the 
fair,  storm  alternates  with  calm,  flowers  grow 
out  of  death,  and  the  fairness,  the  calm  and  the 
flowers  are  the  stronger.  Poets  and  artists  know 
this  when  they  step  across  their  thresholds  in 
the  morning — whence  their  unreasonable  joy  at 
being  alive — but  most  of  us  have  to  be  shaken 
awake  before  we  can  see  what  is  in  front  of  our 
eyes. 

The  desert  shook  us  awake.  We  had  come 
looking  for  mysteries  and  ''terrible  fascinations" 
and  found  only  the  mystery  of  the  old  outdoors 

[221] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


and  the  terrible  fascination  of  the  old  outdoors. 
Beauty  pressing  around  sorrow — the  desert  is 
simply  a  very  forceful  statement  about  that. 

For  the  adventure  w^ith  the  outdoors  is  the 
adventure  with  beauty.  And  when  you  have  that 
adventure  the  jealous  walls,  however  engrossing 
their  contents,  and  they  may  be  very  interesting 
and  amusing  and  serious  and  exciting,  can 
never  bully  you  again.  They  have  doors  and 
windows  in  them  and  beauty  is  around  them  like 
a  garment.  You  and  I,  unaccountably  split  off 
from  the  vast  drama  and  blessedly  able  to  be 
aware  of  it  for  a  little  while,  shall  we  let  the  din 
and  bother  inside  the  walls,  the  frantic  lunging 
at  the  still  face  of  time,  raise  such  a  dust  in  our 
eyes  that  we  cannot  see? 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth  and  all  ye  need  to  know." 

Every  day  while  we  rested  at  Silver  Lake  we 
looked  the  length  of  the  barren  lake  bed  to  the 
bright  mirage  at  the  base  of  the  black  mountain 
that  was  no  mountain  at  all,  and  northward  over 
sandy  emptiness  to  the  enchanted  pathway  lead- 

[222] 


The  End  of  the  Adventure 

ing  behind  the  Avawatz.  Fourteen  of  the  still, 
bright  days  of  the  desert  were  strung  on  the  end- 
less string  before  we  had  to  say  good-by  to  our 
hosts  and  to  the  Worrier. 

Never  can  we  forget  any  of  the  people  whom 
we  met  during  our  adventure  with  the  outdoors, 
neither  the  few  whom  we  have  mentioned  in  this 
inadequate  telling  of  it,  nor  the  many  whom  we 
have  not.  They  were  all  unfailingly  kind.  It 
was  very  hard  to  part  from  our  guide,  and  noth- 
ing reconciled  us  to  it  except  his  cheerful  prom- 
ise to  act  as  Official  Worrier  again.  Our  host- 
ess invited  us  to  come  any  time  and  stay  as  long 
as  we  liked,  an  invitation  of  which  we  have 
gladly  availed  ourselves. 

We  piled  our  baggage  into  the  automobile, 
abandoned  so  long  at  Silver  Lake,  and  through 
a  whole  sunny  day  drove  away  from  the  White 
Heart.  The  dim  road  led  past  sinister  little 
craters  that  long  ago  spilled  ugly,  black  lava 
over  the  hills,  through  acres  and  acres  of  blue 
lupins  blown  to  waves  like  a  sea,  across  two 
ranges  of  enchanted  mountains  and  down  into 
and  over  the  white  Ivanpah  Valley  where  the 

[223] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


heavy  sand  made  the  engine  boil.  Several  times 
we  left  the  car  to  walk  on  the  savage,  torn-up 
hills  made  gentle  by  flow^ers.  When  the  noise 
of  the  engine  w^as  hushed  the  silence  was  full  of 
the  singing  of  birds. 

In  the  rose  and  orange  of  evening  we  reached 
Needles  on  the  bank  of  the  red  Colorado  River, 
and  came  out  of  the  wild  and  lonely  place  onto 
the  great  highway  that  joins  the  Atlantic  and 
the  Pacific.  The  sand  and  rock  trail  follows 
the  steel  road  of  the  Santa  Fe  .  Transcontinental 
trains  roar  past  and  pennants  flutter  on  automo- 
biles from  Maine  and  P^lorida,  Michigan  and 
Texas,  Oregon  and  California.  Dust  clouds 
roll  over  the  edge  of  Mojave  as  America  goes 
by.  Some  travelers  look  at  her  curiously,  some 
look  longingly,  some  shudder,  some  pass  with 
the  window  shades  pulled  down.  All  the  time 
she  is  singing  on  her  rosy  mountain-tops  and  in 
her  deep,  hot  valleys  where  the  blaze  of  the  sun 
is  white. 


[224] 


APPENDIX 

".  .  .  That  part  of  California  which  lies  to  the 
south  and  east  of  the  southern  inosculation  of  the 
Coast  Range  and  the  Sierra  comprises  an  area  of 
fully  50,000  sq.m.  For  the  most  part  it  is  exces- 
sively dry  and  barren.  The  Mohave  Desert — era- 
bracing  Kern,  Los  Angeles  and  San  Bernardino,  as 
also  a  large  part  of  San  Diego,  Imperial  and  River- 
side counties — belong  to  the  'Great  Basin.'  .  .  . 
The  Mohave  Desert  is  about  2,000  ft.  above  the 
sea  in  general  altitude.  The  southern  part  of  the 
Great  Basin  region  is  vaguely  designated  the  Colo- 
rado desert.  In  San  Diego,  Imperial  and  Riverside 
counties  a  number  of  creeks  or  so  called  rivers,  with 
beds  that  are  normally  dry,  flow  centrally  toward 
the  desert  of  Salton  Sink  or  'Sea' ;  this  is  the  lowest 
part  of  a  large  area  that  is  depressed  below  the 
level  of  the  sea,  at  Salton  263  ft.,  and  287  ft.  at 
the  lowest  point.  In  1900  the  Colorado  River 
(q.v.)  was  tapped  south  of  the  Mexican  boundary 
for  water  wherewith  to  irrigate  land  in  the  Imperial 
Valley  along  the  Southern  Pacific  Railway,  adjoin- 

[225] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


ing  Salton  Sea.  The  river  enlarged  the  Canal,  and 
finding  a  steeper  gradient  than  that  to  its  mouth, 
was  diverted  into  the  Colorado  Desert,  flooding 
Salton  Sea,  and  when  the  break  in  this  river  was 
closed  for  the  second  time  in  February,  1907, 
though  much  of  its  water  still  escaped  through 
minor  channels  and  by  seepage,  a  lake  more  than 
400  sq.m.  in  area  was  left.  A  permanent  60  ft. 
masonry  dam  was  completed  in  July,  1907. 

".  .  .  Death  Valley  surpasses  for  combined  heat 
and  aridity  any  meteorological  stations  on  earth 
where  regular  observations  are  taken,  although  for 
extremes  of  heat  it  is  exceeded  by  places  in  the 
Colorado  desert.  The  minimum  daily  temperature 
in  summer  is  rarely  below  70°  F.  and  often  above 
96°  F.  (in  the  shade),  while  the  maximum  may  for 
days  in  succession  be  as  high  as  120°  F.  A  record 
of  six  months  ( 1891)  showed  an  average  daily  rela- 
tive humidity  sometimes  falls  to  5.  Yet  the  sur- 
rounding country  is  not  devoid  of  vegetation.  The 
hills  are  very  fertile  when  irrigated,  and  the  wet 
season  develops  a  variety  of  perennial  herbs,  shrubs 
and  annuals." 

The  Encyclopzedia  Britannica:    "California." 
"It  is  often  said  that  America  has  no  real  des- 
erts.    This  is  true  in  the  sense  that  there  are  no 

[226] 


Appendix 

regions  such  as  are  found  in  Asia  and  Africa  where 
one  can  travel  a  hundred  miles  at  a  stretch  and 
scarcely  see  a  sign  of  vegetation — nothing  but  barren 
gravel,  graceful,  wavy  sand  dunes,  hard,  wind-swept 
clay,  or  still  harder  rock  salt  broken  into  rough 
blocks  with  upturned  edges.  In  the  broader  sense 
of  the  term,  however,  America  has  an  abundance  of 
deserts — regions  which  bear  a  thin  cover  of  bushy 
vegetation  but  are  too  dry  for  agriculture  without 
irrigation.  ...  In  the  United  States  the  deserts 
lie  almost  wholly  between  the  Sierra  Nevada  and 
the  Rocky  Mountain  ranges,  which  keep  out  any 
moisture  that  might  come  from  either  the  west  or 
the  east.  Beginning  on  the  north  with  the  sage- 
brush plateau  of  southern  Washington,  the  desert 
expands  to  a  width  of  seven  hundred  miles  in  the 
gray,  sage-covered  basins  of  Nevada  and  Utah.  In 
southern  California  and  Arizona  the  sagebrush 
gives  place  to  smaller  forms  like  the  salt-bush,  and 
the  desert  assumes  a  sterner  aspect.  Next  comes 
the  cactus  desert  extending  from  Arizona  far  south 
into  Mexico.  One  of  the  notable  features  of  the 
desert  is  the  extreme  heat  of  certain  portions.  Close 
to  the  Nevada  border  in  southern  California,  Death 
Valley,  250  feet  below  sea-level,  is  the  hottest  place 
in   America.     There   alone   among   the   American 

[227] 


White  Heart  of  Mojave 


regions  familiar  to  the  writer  does  one  have  the 
feeling  of  intense,  overpowering  aridity  which  pre- 
vails so  often  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia  and  Central 
Asia.  Some  years  ago  a  Weather  Bureau  ther- 
mometer was  installed  in  Death  Valley  at  Furnace 
Creek,  where  the  only  flowing  water  in  more  than  a 
hundred  miles  supports  a  depressing  little  ranch. 
There  one  or  two  white  men,  helped  by  a  few  In- 
dians, raise  alfalfa,  which  they  sell  at  exorbitant 
prices  to  deluded  prospectors  searching  for  riches 
which  they  never  find.  Though  the  terrible  heat 
ruins  the  health  of  the  white  men  In  a  year  or  two, 
so  that  they  have  to  move  away,  they  have  suc- 
ceeded In  keeping  a  thermometer  record  for  some 
years.  No  other  properly  exposed  out-of-door  ther- 
mometer In  the  United  States,  or  perhaps  in  the 
world.  Is  so  familiar  with  a  temperature  of  lOO  °  F. 
or  more.  During  the  period  of  not  quite  fifteen 
hundred  days  from  the  spring  of  191 1  to  May, 
1915,  a  maximum  temperature  of  100°  F.  or  more 
was  reached  In  five  hundred  and  forty-eight  days, 
or  more  than  one-third  of  the  time.  On  July  10, 
19 1 3,  the  mercury  rose  to  134°  F.  and  touched  the 
top  of  the  tube.  How  much  higher  It  might  have 
gone  no  one  can  tell.  That  day  marks  the  limit  of 
temperature  yet  reached  in  this  country  according 

[228] 


Appendix 

to  official  records.  In  the  summer  of  19 14  there 
was  one  night  when  the  thermometer  dropped  only 
to  114°  F.,  having  been  128°  F.  at  noon.  The 
branches  of  a  pepper-tree  whose  roots  had  been 
freshly  watered  wilted  as  a  flower  wilts  when  broken 
from  the  stalk." 

— The  Chronicles  of  America. — Volume  I. 
"The    Red   Man's   Continent,"   by   Ells- 
worth Huntington. 


[229] 


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